I’ve recently noticed several signs of adulthood in my behaviour. At first I was horrified, but I have come to accept, even enjoy, the natural ageing process
I
nearly drove into a wall the other day, because I couldn’t take my eyes off some spectacular wisteria. Ten years ago I doubt I would have even noticed it, or known what it was, never mind been so transfixed that I unwittingly endangered my life. It’s pretty much invisible in your youth, and then suddenly, at a certain age, or stage, you see it, appreciate it and become mesmerised by its impressive display.
My botanical brush with death was the moment that I knew for certain: no matter how I feel inside, I am now unquestionably a grownup. This wisteria hysteria isn’t an isolated incident, of course. There have been several other definitely adult signifiers:
At some point, trying to get your whites as white as possible changed from the pursuit of a cliche housewife in a mildly offensive advert to something I truly, madly, deeply care about. Nowadays, I would lean in to hear a killer laundry tip faster and more eagerly than I would for a juicy piece of gossip. I could probably have replaced all my family’s white clothing thrice over with the amount I’ve spent on alleged miracle products for whites so far (the search continues). I have also been known to boast to what I mistakenly believed were interested parties about how quickly I’ve put a wash on after returning from holiday, and take more pride in setting a new personal best than any runner in the history of marathons.
