Hilarious yet oddly insightful post into being a grown up kid 🙂
I am a solo-dweller.
A candle-hoarding, Netflix-binging, topless-laundry-folding, plants-are-my-pets, master-of-the-house party of uno.
On the evening of my 23rd birthday, after returning from work around 9 pm and washing several layers of other people’s sweat off my body in my chokey-sized shower stall, I sit on the couch eating baby carrots straight out of the bag. It is fantastic.
I make needlepoint samplers for my newlywed friends, and attend nuptials -stag- in a lacy frock and ballet flats. Like a bona fide lady.
I gravitate towards the children on the dance floor, identical twin flower girls and a hesitant ring bearer who transforms to Michael Jackson’s greatest hits. I don’t notice how much time I’ve spent teaching a wide-eyed 4-year-old to swing dance until the end of the night, when an unknown relative (Aunt Amelia?) thanks me for being “so generous with the kids out there!”. Apparently, these are…
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