The problem with being an older adult is that you can indeed eat cake for lunch, and no-one will stop you, but you know you are getting fatter when you do it. 
I think I needed to read that.
I have this awful tendency to constantly police myself. “You should work out more, you shouldn’t eat that, you shouldn’t stay up so late, you shouldn’t spend money on stupid things, you’re too old to play computer games. Why can’t you be a better person?” I constantly deny myself things, and then beat myself up afterwards when I fall for the temptation anyway.
It’s like I internalized my parents and teachers, only in a version more monstrous and devoid of humor than any of them ever was.
You know what? Screw that stuff. No one is watching what I do. What’s the point of any of this if you can’t have fun? It’s like I’m denying myself the benefits of being alive.
Wow. I feel like I just had a life-changing revelation. From here on in it’ll be hedonism for me. That voice in my head can go screw itself.
I’ll get back to you and tell you how it works out.
As I was leaving work the other night, I got a text from my fiancee: “Hurry home, I miss you.” I hurried home, making the usually 15-20 minute drive in 10. An hour later, I finally got around to taking my socks off.
Being an adult is awesome.
A lot of my childhood was miserable, being bullied and beaten by other children and punished when I defended myself.
I much prefer being an adult far away from where my childhood was.
As an adult I found with just some money, I could buy an airline ticket to any exotic location and go off and have adventures. The first time I did it I knew suddenly, like a flash of lightening in a dark night, what lifestyle I wanted to pursue. I didn’t care anymore that I was not motivated by what motivated my peers. I found my groove.
Being an adult rocks, being a child sucked in every comparable way. And liver has not passed my lips, low these many years!
So did I. It was apple pie, it had some nutritional value. 
Ah, yes, liver…haven’t eaten it in about 34 years. My husband loves liver and onions, and scarfs it down happily. I figured that maybe I just didn’t like the way my mother cooked it. Nope, I just don’t like liver, at all.
Apparently, I don’t do a very good job of cooking liver, either, unless it’s a chicken or turkey liver that I roast with the rest of the bird. Bill is outraged, OUTRAGED I tells ya, that most whole birds don’t have the giblets packed with them.
Ah yeah. I remember my mother dressing me up in “nice” clothes that I hated. And I remember that, instead of explaining to me that sometimes we have to “dress up” for certain things, her explanation for why I couldn’t wear my usual jeans & T-shirt was always, “Because people will think I’m a bad mother!” Ooooookaaay…
Now I’m 47, and I’ve spent my entire adult life wearing my jeans & T-shirts for damn near everything. I wear jeans (or shorts) and a T-shirt to Sunday morning church service, and I’m one of the people standing on the stage playing the music.
Our family television broke when I was 10, and my parents elected to neither repair nor replace it. Premise: “We spend too much time staring at the TV and not enough time talking to each other!” Reality: With no TV to at least keep us all in the same room together, everybody in the family went off in their own directions.
I played outside, and read books, and taught myself to play the guitar, and discovered that I really preferred not having to talk to people.
LOL - In my continuing — and still unsuccessful — attempts to convince my mom and other relatives that I really truly honestly do not want you to buy me anything for my birthday or Christmas, I came up with the idea of handing out a list of items they could buy for me if they insisted on continuing to disrespect my wishes. Items 1 and 2 on the list were “white cotton athletic socks, ankle-length” and “boxers”. You can never have enough socks and underwear, particularly when your work schedule sometimes forces you to miss your regular laundry day. 
Broccoli. The mere smell of it still makes my stomach churn. Do. Not. Want. Yup, the best part of being an adult is that I don’t have to eat things I don’t like, just because they’re “good for me”. See, I’ve discovered other things that are just as good for me, and they manage to be good for me without tasting like Satan’s ass.
My adult life is being surrounded by encroaching 2 legged vermin.
When I was a small child, I was constantly dressed in the sort of skirts that required stiff petticoats. For most excursions, my hair was teased into a mini-beehive, too.
Somebody forgot to tell my mother that I was a human being, not a large porcelain doll to dress up and show off.
My Father decreed that females should never be seen in public in pants - skirts and dresses only!
I haven’t worn a dress in 32 years.
And I can buy all the Legos I want dammit!
My first night in my new place after moving out, I made liver and onions. My siblings hated them so we almost never had it, even though it was my favorite. Came out horrible - I had to call home, get the recipe (actually a recipe - I just threw it in a pan and turned on the burner :smack:), and start over.
But what I enjoy most about adulthood is having my own money - no pleading, no allowance, no explaining why I need it. I go out, earn some, do what I want with it. Of course, a lot of that is paying bills, saving for retirement, and buying liver, so not quite the thrill ride some think adult independence should be.
I phoned my mom once and told her that I ate my dessert BEFORE my dinner. “Want to know why? I’ll tell you why. Because I’m a grown-up AND I CAN.”
She said: “Yeah. I phone your Nana every now and then and say the same thing.”
I still remember the first time I stood up to my mother over one of her petty opinions.
She came to visit me in my first apartment after getting my first job. What got her going was she spotted the smallest possible size of Miracle Whip in my refrigerator, something she loved. She put that crap on thick when she ate it.
“You should get a bigger jar than that. Small jars are expensive, and you use it a lot.”
“No, I got exactly the amount I wanted.”
“But you should get a bigger jar…”
“Mom, read my lips. I DON’T LIKE MIRACLE WHIP. I got that jar because I wanted to make tuna salad, and anything bigger would be a waste because I won’t eat it.”
“Oh.” Her face kind of wilted. That was the first time I ever stood up to her. She never was controlling, but she was very opinionated and took it for granted that there was no other valid viewpoint.
Not long after that, I wrecked my car big time. I didn’t ask her permission or blessing on the replacement, but I did relish her advice. That was the time I realized I was an adult after all, and on my own.
Yeah. The other night at about 9pm I felt like a root beer float so I drove to the store and got some ice cream and root beer and then went home and made one.
I don’t understand this. You’d go use the bathroom and then your parents would berate you saying, “What? You went to the bathroom? Why didn’t you wait 3 hours?”
No, more of a, “Do you need to go to the bathroom? Are you sure? You should go now because I don’t know when we will be near a bathroom again today.” or “Why didn’t you go when you had the chance? Well, you’ll just have to hold it then!”
It’s the American Way!
Being an adult is awesome. I spent a lot of my 20s worrying about what other people thought of me, and then it occurred to me, I’m a grown-up, someone I barely know not liking me affects my life in zero ways. Then there’s the constantly worrying about being attractive. Obviously I still make an effort to look good, but deep down there is this comfort of knowing that the only person I need to find me beautiful is my husband, and I have that pretty much unconditionally. A far cry from those awkward adolescent years.