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 The frequent cackling laughter has been replaced by an occasional smirk and wandering eyes.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.