The end of the year always leads to the inevitable self reflection and introspection that I am able to take to unprecedented extremes. I don't have to do much soul-searching, though, to conclude that I am immature. I am in my thirties, am married and am a mother, which, of course, essentially means that I am entirely responsible for the life of another person. I graduated from college, work a full time job and pay a mortgage. But I don't feel like an adult. I don't have a clue what would make me feel like an adult, either.
Maybe it is my indecisiveness. Indecision may or may not be my problem (okay, I cribbed that line from a Jimmy Buffett song, but it is still a good line, and it fits). Sometimes I think the only reason I make decisions is so I will have something to regret later. It isn't character assassination to say that I make bad decisions (when I do make decision), phenomenally bad decisions that could land me the cover of What Was She Thinking? magazine. I always attributed my bad decision making to being a part of my personality like my wicked sense of humor or my extreme emotional overreaction to any perceived slight -- real or imaginary. But I am working on that, trying to make decisions I can live with, decisions that are more intelligent, more . . . adult.
Then again, maybe the key to adulthood isn't as abstract as the concept of good decisions. Maybe it is something simple and concrete. And maybe this will be the year when I finally feel a bit more like a grown up.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some playing to do.
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