Who You Callin’ Lady?!

The other day I was in Target (by myself–I can’t remember exactly what miraculous circumstances came together to make that possible but it was a glorious occasion indeed), speed-walking like I do when I’m alone and on a mission.  I edged past a woman pushing a cart, and she saw me and pulled her daughter gently out of my path.

“Watch out for that lady, honey.”

“Oh, you’re fine,” I said, flashing the pair a smile as I defaulted to my ‘extra accommodating and friendly to strangers’ persona like I do when I’m alone and in public.  Something about what she had said struck me as weird but it didn’t hit me until several full seconds later.






I cocked my head to the side.  (Mentally, at least.  I did not in fact stop in the middle of the frozen foods aisle to tilt my head in a perplexed manner.)

I’m not ‘that lady‘!  I’m that girl!

It was a small lexical swap but for some reason it niggled at me.  I have spent the better part of the last 8 years being mistaken for a 16-year old.  It’s ingrained into my psyche.  Tell me about yourself:  I look like a high schooler.  People assume I’m babysitting when I’m out with my kids.  I only get hit on by boys that aren’t old enough to vote.  I am a girl, not a woman.

But somehow, sometime over the past decade, I became a woman.  And I guess I’m just wondering when exactly it happened because I seem to have missed it.


Yesterday my mom and I went Christmas shopping.  After getting distracted at Target and a shoe store we went to the mall to actually buy some gifts for other people.  It was crawling with teenagers, and I realized as I observed them hanging in their groups and wearing their fashionable clothes and texting or whatever the hell else adolescents do on their nice phones these days that they were like a foreign species to me.

Wait.  When did I stop being able to relate to teenagers?

I used to get teenagers, used to feel like one of them.  When did I go from “HELLO, MY FELLOW ANGSTY BRETHREN!” to “Could you please explain to me the purpose of snapchat?”

I mean, I guess I am a woman.  I’ve been married for five and a half years and have two kids and I pay bills and go grocery shopping and have love handles and shit like that.

But in my head I still feel like that awkward, hopeful 16-year old girl.  The change happened so subtly that sometimes I still look around at my life and think, Okay, whose brilliant idea was it to give me all these adult responsibilities?

I wonder if you ever really feel grown up.  Maybe you don’t.  Maybe you don’t magically get everything figured out one day like I always assumed.  Maybe a lot of us are still teenagers in our minds, and we’re all just winging it through adulthood.


Was there a defining moment when you suddenly felt “grown up”?  Or do you, like me, have serious doubts that you’ll ever actually qualify as an adult?

4 thoughts on “Who You Callin’ Lady?!

  1. My mom says she still feels like she’s about 25 or so and has for the last two decades. I think I feel pretty adult-ish, if by adult you mean eating whatever the hell I want all day every day and only being responsible for a cat and taking my meds.

    Maybe that’s not what you mean though. I dunno.

    • You’re keeping yourself and another being alive. I think that’s pretty legit. By that standard I guess we’re both adults, eh? I think eating whatever the hell I want is my favorite part. I can’t wait to come be an adult at your house in January, though. 😉

  2. I still don’t feel like an adult, and I’d never knowlingly use the word woman to describe myself. It sounds too adultish….aren’t I still 27? It’s how i feel

thoughts? leave 'em here.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s