When you spend as much time on Facebook as I do (and as any twenty-something in an entry-level clerical position can tell you, that’s a lot of time), you start to notice certain things. Like, that you’re always the first to know when some washed-up quasi-celeb from the 80′s dies. And people love random song lyrics from indie bands you’ve never heard of. And everyone you know thinks BP is the demon spawn of Satan and Hitler.
There’s a trend on Facebook that’s become more and more apparent to me of late; that is, the statuses of my peers can be divided into two categories – statuses that are about engagements, weddings, babies and homes, and statuses about everything else. And I’m not gonna lie, folks – it’s starting to freak me out.
I’ve heard tell from those that have gone before me that this is not an unusual phenomenon. Around the time one’s mid-twenties roll around, friends and acquaintances start to split off into two camps: those that are ready to pair up, settle down and embark on the path to domestic bliss, and those that are still seeking something – the right partner, more education, a new career, or just another Happy Hour.
Obviously, you know which camp I fall into, mainly because I am still firmly ensconced in the quest for all four of those things listed above. And I’m not condescending those who have taken the plunge into marriage and mortgages. Who knows? If I had made different choices in my life, I may have been right there with you. Be who you are, I say; if you’ve found someone that you love and makes you happy, go for it. What I can’t wrap my head around is the absolute “adultness” of those actions. Who authorized us to be this grown-up? You mean we’re actually allowed to do things like get married and buy a house? We’re not just a bunch of kids playing dress-up, who will drop our adult personas as soon as Mom yells it’s time for dinner?
I balk at the idea that it’s immaturity that leads me and others like me to reject marriage, parenthood and home ownership as hallmarks we can’t or won’t achieve. I consider myself to be a pretty mature, responsible person. I work a full-time job. I live on my own and support myself. I have a car. I pay my bills on time, know how to cook three recipes really well, and I own more business-casual clothes than sweatpants. For all intents and purposes, I am an adult. But I still toe that invisible line between young adulthood, in which you’re unattached and unencumbered and still figuring things out, and full-on adulthood, in which you apparently know enough about yourself and life to make a lifetime commitment to someone else, and possibly even start raising a family of your own. It’s a fine line that more and more people my age seem to be crossing.
It can be grating at time, I’ll admit, to read updates about preparations for weddings I won’t be invite to and babies I’ll never meet. But then I remember that while they’ll be writing out thank-you notes and changing diapers, I can dance around with a lampshade on my head if I so choose. And suddenly life on this side of the fine line doesn’t seem so bad.