My Life as an Impostor

I’m a poser in a bunch of arenas, but the most obvious one to you, my reader, is that I am not a real blogger. I cannot even recall how many blogs I have created with all the positive intent in the world to write, even if just for myself. I write a few posts and then it trickles down to a rusty puff of poorly designed and cold-heartedly abandoned web space.

I’m writing all the time time…in my head. I have written volumes of content. It’s just bouncing around between my brain cells along with Ariana Grande songs and the story line of Orange is the New Black.

Anyway, this blog isn’t about me being a lazy writer, it is about me being a 31 year old girl, er, woman.

Thirty was easy. Everyone makes a stink about how sad leaving your twenties behind is, but it wasn’t that hard for me. The twenties are fun, but crazy and insecure and lack dental coverage. I was happy to cross the threshold into my thirtieth year, with many accolades in tow, including a degree, life experience, travels, health insurance, the illusion of an adult corporate job, and a Netflix account under MY name.

Thirty was great. I had a good ol’ time doing Zumba, watching documentaries on space exploration and deciding on pursuing a Master’s degree. Then 31 came and my roommate left me for Chicago (and took her dog, how dare she). Living alone does two things: (1) reminds you of all the kitchen gadgets you don’t own (I opened a can with a butter knife recently) and (2) gives you a lot of alone time to think. Now more than ever I feel like I am impostor. I am an adult who owns many throw pillows, but I do not FEEL like an adult. My dad, my mom…those are real adults.

They know those secrets that only non-impostor adults know and don’t have to Google…like how to change a tire or make stuffing from scratch.

I refuse to believe that being an adult means getting hitched and having children, because I know that these milestones don’t magically make you a responsible, contributing member of society…despite the tax breaks. Plus, what if I choose to never do those things (mom, don’t cry)? Maybe this is it!

For now I will just strut around in my ill-fitting “business professional” work clothes and make a conscious effort to eat more vegetables and drink dark beer because that’s what adults do.

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