Adulthood: Unsupervised

I have a story to tell, and it may make you lose brain cells.

As a young girl growing up in the wonderful state of Mississippi. Church takes place every Sunday, but what those outside of the bible belt don’t know is that in the days before Walmart delivery (praise the Lord for that), there were three groups of people on Sundays…

The families that always went out to eat on Sundays (This was what I used to consider rich)

The families that had a home-cooked lunch at Mee Maw’s house every Sunday (My grandparents went to a different church across town at different times, and my dad was a fireman, so that was out, except for holidays).

And…The families that went to the grocery store and got either fast food or the Sam’s Club snack bar for lunch…My family.

One fateful Sunday at the beginning of my 5th-grade year, the grocery shopping commenced as per usual. My 5-year-old sister and I were trudging through the aisles with my mother as she debated between frozen chicken nuggets or strips, had an hour-long conversation when she saw someone she knew, yelled at us to stop fighting, and answered 5 different phone calls.

I was obviously behaving perfectly (NOT) and (NOT) patiently waiting for the greasy and insanely cheap meal that I was about to have. At this time, I was particularly fond of the hot dogs. I am still fond of a good hot dog on the grill, but these hot dogs were girthy, like almost as thick as a Febreze can. That was not the safest option for 10-year-old me, but I liked to live life on the wild side.

After hours, no... seriously, literally hours of grocery shopping, we finally checked out and headed over to the snack bar. My mom orders for us, we get our food, sit down, and start eating. During this, my mother gets a work call. She stood up and walked over to the trash can about 10 feet away to answer the phone. Then, terror strikes.  

As I am eating my large hot dog, I try to swallow, but it's stuck. In my head, I am saying, “Oh crap, this doesn’t feel right, am I choking right now?” Yes, I was choking right now. Then my unintelligent inner monologue said, “Oh wait, you have thought about this, just breathe through your nose”. DUH, problem solved. No, problem NOT solved. I tried it, it didn’t work (obviously), thank God I didn’t get a degree in healthcare.

I then screamed to get the attention of my mother, who was conveniently facing away from the impending doom of her child; no sound was emitted. I try again, screaming from the depths of my soul, still no sound. Okay, at this point, I am panicking. So, I started to bang on the table like nobody's business (you think those plastic tables would have resonated more sound from this, but they did not). Fortunately, my mother turned around to check on us like any good mother and make sure we were still alive, which I was about to not be, and I took this moment to signal my swiftly approaching demise.

She noticed I seemed distressed, so with a slightly annoyed tone (I was a buck wild child, so this is valid), she lowered the phone and said, “What is it?”. And I did do one smart thing, I remembered the universal signal for choking, so I put my hands on my neck, and then in a panicked mama bear tone, she screams, “You’re CHOKING?”. I frantically shake my head up and down for yes, luckily, too worried about my current situation to be embarrassed that the entire front side of the store has been made aware of my losing battle with a hot dog.

She runs over and picks me up out of the picnic-style table (Super mom phenomenon is a very real thing, by the way) and begins the Heimlich maneuver. Thank God she DID get a degree in healthcare. I open my mouth wide to allow room for the forced extraction of my no longer appetizing hot dog, and boom, out pops the weasel. The compacted mixture of the rejected meat cylinder and the stale bun shot out onto the floor by a nearby table, where a nice older man seemed mortified.  

AIR, BREATH, LIFE. I am alive, and I was overcome with relief. Then the man asked me, “Are you okay?” EMBARRASMENT. I was then overcome with shame that I was in middle school and didn’t know how to properly chew. ACHE. I was then overcome with the insane pain in my throat. That was going to be there a while. It felt similar to how I imagined elastic felt after being popped in the waistband of pants that were a little too snug.

Anyways, my voice was gone for a week, and my throat hurt until a week after that. As they say, the devil couldn’t reach me, so he sent a Sam’s Club hot dog.

Ughhhhhh. Mornings, am I right?

Y’all ever seen Scream, where they find Drew Barrymore by the tree? That is what it’s like going back to work after a vacation. Pure pandemonium.

The weekend before last, my husband and I took a beach trip with our best couple friends. (Okay, technically, she’s my best friend, and we forced our husbands into friendship, but it’s fine. They like each other, so it works).

The trip was great: shopping, seafood, a movie, relaxing on the beach, and who doesn’t love a good lazy river? Better yet: I was temporarily free from most responsibility. I came back well fed, sun-tanned through a screen door (If you’re not from the south, it means freckles), and partially ready to tackle the week. Then the horrors began…

I obviously can’t be specific as I’d like to remain somewhat anonymous, but I will say, the struggle was real: A different meeting every day (which is fine but why do they take SO LONG?), a surprise project that put me on the verge of a legitimate crash out, and an all-day training, on a FRIDAY. I didn’t even get to leave work on time. Honestly, it should be a criminal offense to make people stay late on a Friday, and I am a very hard worker, so that says a lot coming from me.

You go away for a few days to actually benefit from the small amount of extra money that you have been saving and get a break from the cycle of work, and then you return, and the world says, “Oh, you want a personal life? Time to face your punishment in the form of workplace chaos.”

I meant to post this yesterday, but I was dangling from a very frayed thread labeled “Monday.” You get it.

Anyone else grow up thinking they were dumb? Same. Plot twist: I wasn’t. I just had hardcore ADHD, not the “I watched a TikTok about it” kind. The real kind. Couldn’t sit still, hated loud noises, no filter, fidgeted like a cat on a tin roof.

My school tested me for ADHD quite a bit. Diagnosis confirmed every time. Medication? Lord no. My parents were like, “Cope naturally.” Somehow, I always had great grades, got put in “gifted” classes (Mississippi public school, so the bar was low), but flopped on any test with a timer. Shout-out to the ACT for the ego check.

Then came college. I showed up to orientation solo like a full-grown adult, only to realize half the freshmen couldn’t make a doctor’s appointment or set an alarm. Meanwhile, I’d been packing my own lunch since elementary school. I even made appointments for my roommate. A true public servant.

I started at a JUCO, not because I’m dumb or poor, but because I’m financially literate. I loved it. Cheerleading, routine, friends, no Greek life tax. Then I transferred to university… and hated every second. My arm injury ended cheer; I wasn’t a freshman, I wasn’t in a sorority, and suddenly I had the social ranking of a library printer. Most people treated my part-time job like it was a terminal illness (“You work…I am so sorry??”). Like, come on, you're going to college to eventually work, why are you looking at me like one of the shivering puppies in the ASPCA commercials?

Ole Miss was beautiful, and I will scream Hotty Toddy forever, but the place is basically a dumpsite for rich kids who weren't smart enough for an Ivy League, and no hate to sororities, some of my best friends were in them elsewhere, but these girls thought “real problems” meant emptying their outrageous monthly allowance from their parents on their fake IDs. I made a few decent connections, but between classes, work, and being broke, I didn’t have time for surface-level friendships. Shout-out to my roommates, they were amazing and got me through it.

Anyway, I worked all through college, graduated early with honors, and still wasn’t sure if I was smart… until I got thrown into the real world. And let me tell you: Gen Z can’t have a basic human conversation without buffering, Boomers think “AirDrop” is a terrorist threat, and half of everyone just gets by on the bare minimum like ambition is an optional upgrade.

So maybe I am smart. Or maybe the bar is just unbearably low. Either way, here I am.

Have you ever looked around and wondered who thought it was a good idea to let you become an adult? Because I did. And I still do, daily.

Let’s get one thing clear: Legally, I am an adult. But I’m in my early twenties, which means in adult years, I’m basically a toddler. A baby deer trying to walk for the first time… and hunting season is fast approaching.

In high school, I used to daydream about leaving my small Mississippi town, becoming a boss baddie in law, or saving the oceans, or something else equally poetic. Like most teens, I wasn’t the brightest. I had main-character energy with zero plot development.

But, alas things shifted.

I did leave for college. Then, like every lead in a Hallmark Christmas movie, I realized: there’s no place like home. Yeah, I know, boring. But don’t worry, I didn’t come back and open a bakery or save the town parade or anything. I just met my husband (still cliché, still cute).

I graduated from college, with the student loan debt to prove it. (Side note: shout out to Greek life culture for importing rich kids into the Deep South and inflating tuition like it was Bitcoin in 2012.)

Then came the job. Not a great one, but decent. But I LOVE my coworkers. Eventually, I leveled up with a promotion in the same department, not really any raise though, so don’t get too excited. There’s still room to grow, but hey, at least I have an office now.

Now? I’ve got a house. A dog. A husband. And a thousand unread emails reminding me I don’t have enough credit age. Could this get any lamer? Maybe. Could it get any better? Also, maybe.

So…do I have it all figured out?

Absolutely not. But some days, I at least remember what day it is, and that feels like progress. Still, I find myself needing an outlet. Because I can’t be the only one who hates the struggles of adulthood, but still loves their life overall.