adult class

by Miss What's-Your-Name-Again?

Dear child,

Thank you for checking my blood pressure eighteen times today. I know you became increasingly concerned when you invited me to sit in your tiny, child-size wicker armchair to take my blood pressure once, and then the seventeen consequent times when I failed to get back up. Allow me to explain.

Being an adult is fucking exhausting. It is not, as I may or may not have flippantly told you once or ten million times, “just doing whatever I want all the live long day.” I was fucking exhausted today because I was at class last night. Yes, when you’re an adult you can still go to class, and you have to do it at night because you work all day, unless you end up being like almost everyone else I know in LA who seems to never have to work at all, and just spends their daytime hours trying to figure out where I’m going to be driving in a hurry, and driving, very slowly, around there. And adult class is mostly like your class, except NOT AT FUCKING ALL. First off, you pay for it. With your own money. And, particularly considering that fact, there is a depressing lack of art projects. No one visits the classroom with a guitar to lead you in a series of rousing camp songs, no stickers if you do a good job (your reward is just having done a good job. Think that sucks? When you’re an adult, that’s totally ENOUGH for you.) If you get sad or tired or feel sick, it is considered socially unacceptable to ask the teacher to call your mother and have her pick you up early. And, although I know your teachers, myself included, have told you at least one million goddamn times now that it is ABSOLUTELY ESSENTIAL AND TOTALLY RAD TO MAKE MISTAKES… what we don’t tell you is that it still FUCKING SUCKS when you screw up, it just does and it always will. And, when you’re an adult, mistakes can be personal… mistakes don’t have to be forgetting to carry the one, or using the wrong “you’re;” when yoor an adult, mistakes can just be who you are.

Last night, my beloved teacher reminded me that my mistake was being insecure which, as you might imagine, is sort of a blow when you’re insecure. And, when you’re an adult, your beloved teacher might do a little impression of you being insecure, just to hammer the point home. And then, as an added bonus, maybe a notably charming and attractive boy in your class, in an earnest attempt at being helpful, inadvertently does an additional impression of your teacher doing an impression of you being insecure, and then the battle becomes not so much about endeavoring to keep your face normal, as it is not crossing the room and chucking yourself out the second-story window. Which, you tell yourself consolingly, would probably just result in an ER bill you can’t afford, because you have shitty insurance.

Being an adult means going home that night, unable to sleep, unable to work up the energy to cry because, deep down, you understand that you have been through some serious shit and, in the grand scheme of things, this is a forgettable night at worst. You will ask your dog to come out of his crate and snuggle you for comfort and he will stare back at you with his beady little eyes like, “bitch please.” You will stay up writing shitty things, and then delete it all and sleep fitfully until your alarm wakes you up at the most ungodly hour so that you can pay more money, to go to another class, where a pretty, aspirational woman will yell at you for an hour as you sweat to sped-up pop remixes. And when the hour is over, and you gingerly ease yourself into child’s pose for a “moment of stillness,” you will cry silently, from exhaustion, from frustration, into your febreezed lululemons (because who can afford more than one pair of lululemons?) Then you will quickly shower and apply very damaging heat to your hair that you will just end up pulling back into a braid, and bust your ass to school through all of the traffic that has gathered on Olympic just to fuck with you.

So there. Being an adult isn’t always glitz and glamour. It’s hard, and it’s tiring, and occasionally you will spend it feeling sorry for yourself. And the reason I sat for so long in that child-size wicker chair is because my ass was stuck in it.

Love,

Miss What’s-Your-Name-Again?

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