Being adult about things in life can open a chapter of perceptions. People change. Situations change. There are highs and then the terrible lows. The lows that kick you in the shins and point and laugh at you.
For some, being adult could mean sucking it up, making a few reforms and
marching ahead with a remodeled brain. For some others, it could mean
submitting and accepting a side that they were unaware of. For the other brilliant ones, it’s just a billing period for
the fabulous high right before they touched the point of no return (or so they would think).
Being mature probably means not placing trust without a
bargain. It probably means how to weigh your words before speaking your heart
out. It could also mean having a new secret compartment in your cupboard for
your favourite stuffed toy that’s too old to sleep next to you in your bed now.
So, how does one really “grow up”? Who does that to you? What makes it the most
crucial part of your survival? When did it hit you like a million rocks
tightly packed in a jute bag across your pretty face? Did you bleed (no pun
intended!)? Did it hurt like a thousand sharp swords skewering your ribcage
slicing the guts and choking the life out of you? And was it all worth it? The
pain is almost physical and out comes a neatly laundered ‘You’. Ironed and dry
till you face some more dirt. After that begins another laundering process and
then another and so on… till you wear out.
It’s a brilliant place to be. Being Adult. You finally know
it all. You are so sure. Nothing can dupe you into believing anymore.
You’re not a cynic. You just don’t give in that easily. You wear your wounds on
your sleeve and flaunt your worry lines. The frequent cackling laughter has
been replaced by an occasional smirk and wandering eyes. Your towering
confidence is reeking of insecurities. And the face now wears a brilliant
porcelain mask painted with wisdom. You always have a lot to offer to the 'still
innocent' with a disclaimer, “You’ll know with time”. There is a published book
of theories you hold in your hands with definitions written across a hundred
pages. The pride you take in the pain. The pleasure you take in the tears you
shed. You love it! The sweet masochistic pleasure. If that’s not called being grown up, then I don’t know what is.
