I have come to the conclusion that adulting is hard.
Any of you could have probably told that to me in a heartbeat.
For those of you not in the know, “adulting” is the term used by young people (I’m 26) when we manage to accomplish things that should probably be normal for any functioning adult.
For example (a real sentence I have used this week): “I’m craving a salad, actual vegetables, for dinner. What is going on? #adulting.”
Life circumstances of late have led me to the task of hunting for an apartment for the first time, and, having finally found one, figuring out all of the other issues involved. (i.e. how in the world does one go about getting internet, or, how does paying for hydro work again?).
Honestly, I’m still not sure. My current solution is streaming data off of my phone until I have time to install internet into my apartment.
To be fair, I do think I am doing okay at this whole growing up thing, and I don’t think this lack of knowledge applies just to the young. I had a conversation just the other day with someone who went through the same things after a divorce.
I’m also incredibly privileged to have people I can fall back on if things aren’t going my way.
I do have to say, there are advantages to living with your parents during transitions periods, if only for a couple weeks, and it doesn’t just include the fact that I get leftovers to take with me to work on a daily basis. Namely, it’s that you can also use their cable to binge watch ice dancing at the Olympics, (go Tessa and Scott!!) a sport I have never cared about before, and hope never to again (that was far too stressful).
It almost, almost makes it tempting enough to stay.
Still, there are benefits to finally finding an apartment.
My new place came furnished and predecorated, leaving me without the need to try and figure out how to get a bed and furniture up four flights of stairs. I’m half convinced all the furniture was lifted via crane through the balcony.
There is, without a doubt, however, my favourite part of the space. There are at least 10 candles situated around the apartment, each of which turns on with the simple click of a button. On a remote.
I moved in on the weekend, and since then I have not been able to stop myself from revelling in the novelty of pointing a remote at a candle and having it turn on. And off. And on. And off.
If this is my form of adulting, I am more than satisfied. Who needs to know how to change their own oil when remote controlled candles are concerned!
It’s probably a good thing I’m back at the 100 Mile Free Press (however briefly) this week. It’s a wonder how anyone survives without co-workers bringing in treats to keep me fed throughout the day.
