Things I'm Bad at as an Adult

So, my friend Maria recently wrote this post (which y'all should check out because it's funny and witty and all that jazz) as a response to Jenna Marble's "Things I'm Bad At As An Adult." As a response to the response, I thought I would chime in with my own list of adult-y things that I fail at. Because oh boy does it go on. And on. Apparently this shit doesn't get easier after four years of practice.

My only redeeming quality in this regard is that I can finally offer you alcohol in hopes that you'll forget about my shortcomings.

So how about some wine? Vodka? No?

The first thing that I fail at as an adult is being the chief "grownup" in a room. Get me in a room of peers, and I can lead the shit out of a group project. But if I'm leading a group of six year olds and I'm suddenly the sole person in charge, I freak out and forget everything I could have possibly learned in 22 years. Not only that, but I forget that I have the authority to say the magic word: no. As an elementary school volunteer, I've experienced some interesting incidents.

I was once instructed to tell the kids to sit down on the carpet. When the students told me they'd rather not, I was all "oh, okay, who am I to tell you what to do?"

Yes, there are times that I have to tell myself that I'm not the elementary school student. I'm being trusted to tell elementary school students what to do.

All I can think is, when the f*** did that happen? 

My second "adult" failure looks like I'm stealing off of Maria's blog, but my hatred of driving takes the cake. If I'm driving anywhere further than the grocery store, I either scream or cry. Possibly both. I've found that singing and talking in ridiculous accents helps calm me down, but I can only do that with my mother in select social situations, otherwise people tend to get this outrageous notion that I'm weird.

Hah. Wonder where they got that idea. 

I've taken this fear of driving to the next level, as a major consideration of my future plans has to do with my ability to avoid the daunting task. I am by no means a city person. I hate crowds. I would rather not break my bank account to buy a cup of coffee. But, I swear to God, one of the first items on my "pro moving to Korea" list was that I wouldn't have to drive.

If that's not dedication to avoid facing my fears, I don't know what is. Apparently I'd rather deal with crippling social anxiety than a normal, adult task.

I'm bad at looking like an adult. Not only has my face made the wise decision to convince people that I'm fourteen years old (if you tell me I will appreciate this when I'm fifty, I will slap you), but somehow, as I've gotten older, my outfit choices have gotten younger. It may not be acceptable for a twenty-something to pretend she's a cat, but that doesn't mean she can't rock a pair of fuzzy ears like nobody's business.

Said no one ever.

You might think I restricted this look to Halloween. You would be wrong.

I'm bad at dates.
Now I know what you're thinking: 1) why does this girl think I care about what she's bad at? (To which I say thank you for your honesty. Let me offer you more alcohol) But also, being bad at dates is a terrifically adult rite of passage. Suffering through a bad date is an essential part of human existence.

Right you are. But somehow I missed the memo that somewhere between high school and college, it was the polite thing to ask someone out for coffee/dinner/a movie that one or both of you pretends to be intellectually stimulated by before sucking face and introducing said face-sucker as your boyfriend at dinner parties.

Thank you for believing that I get invited to dinner parties.

While, in theory, I'm all for getting to know a person before spending your entire savings account on them (kidding, but actually, relationships are hella expensive), the thing is, I'm terrified of dates. Not because I'm shy (well, kind of because I'm shy), but because I'm so used to the one lovely part of high school when a guy would walk up to me, be all, "hey. I like your face. Be my girlfriend?" and I could say whatever I wanted to him because my mouth knew his mouth.


It's a well-known fact that kissing someone makes you feel 2000% more at ease with them. Except when it doesn't.


But no, now it has to be a backwards process, in which you go through that mortifying dance of "let's sit here and ask superficial questions and pretend to want to pay for some overcooked lobster" just for the mere possibility of not dying alone.

I guess I should be more concerned by the fact that I'm bad at doing important, adult tasks in favor of blogging about why I'm doomed.

May your adult experiences go more smoothly than mine.

Namaste.