Sans Fig Leaf
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"On the road of life"
13 January, 2005
When I was a kid I longed for the day I'd be a grown-up. I had a clear idea of what it would be like: I'd have a home with enough room so I could have a separate office just to write in. I would have my own car. I would own more books than I knew what to do with. I would go to the theatre and see plays or musicals on a regular basis. I would write. I would have friends over for dinner or parties or to talk about interesting things like science or literature or current events. I knew (having become a faithful reader of Writer magazine around the age of eight or so) that I probably wouldn't be able to earn my living solely by writing fiction, so I would have a day job--something in publishing, perhaps, or teaching, or maybe be a librarian.
My family had slightly different ideas. I didn't realize how different until I started to acquire that lifestyle I had envisioned. For one thing, they expected me to get married and start having kids. Very shortly after leaving high school. Somehow I hadn't gotten the memo. I thought that falling in love was something that would happen when I was ready for it, like after I had figured out who I was.
It wasn't just my family. By the time I was out of high school, I was keenly aware of the expectation from even casual acquaintances that sometime soon I should be bringing home a "special girl" to introduce to my family as my intended wife. People didn't come out and say that. They just asked if I was seeing someone special. When I said 'no' the reaction might be anything from dissappointment to disbelief or indignation. Occasionally folks just made knowing comments like, "No one special yet, eh? Well, I'm sure that will change soon enough."
As I passed the ages of 20 and 21, the amused reactions became less common, while the worried reactions became more agitated and insistent. "You can't just hang out with your friends your whole life!"
There were so many subtle and not subtle ways that people communicated their belief that I wasn't an adult. None of my nearby relatives ever came to visit me. I was always expected to go to them. Everything I invested my time in was talked about in that patronizing way certain adults talk about amusing notions small children have of the world. And more and more people felt entitled to ask me when I was going to settle down, get "a real job," stop goofing around and get serious about life.
Some people may accuse me of exaggerating. To them I quote the old adage, "The fish doesn't notice the water it swims in." The attitudes and expectations are very prevalent throughout all levels of society. That doesn't mean that every single person I knew was asking these questions, but most were. I chafed at the questions more than some people do because I wasn't sure I'd ever meet those expectations.
I was still trying to come to grips with the realization that I wasn't straight. I wasn't sure what that meant or even how that would work in the long run, but I was pretty certain that my life wouldn't look like the "expected norm." Because I was a square peg, I noticed that the roles society kept pushing me into didn't fit.
I tried to pretend to be a round peg. I pretended so well that I temporarily fooled myself. And I did bring home that special girl for the family to meet, and one thing led to another, but it still wasn't good enough.
I had foolishly thought that achieving that milestone would get the backseat drivers out of my life. Hardly. No, the "when are you going to get a real job" questions morphed into "are you still working at that place?" And "when are you going to stop goofing around" become "you're not still writing those stories, are you?"
There were many other reasons I had placed myself firmly into that round hole, not just a desire to please my family. All of those other reasons had to be examined and dealt with. Somewhere along the way I realized that I had been thinking of adulthood as a kind of award. I had assumed there would come a point when all of my family, people I had known growing up, friends, colleagues and even strangers would recognize I'd achieved the status of "responsible adult."
It doesn't work that way. Adulthood is not something other people give you. It isn't something you earn. It's something that you must take for yourself. And in the process of grasping it and making it your own, some of the people in your life will be disappointed or dismayed that you aren't taking the path they think you should. Some of them will be people you love.
No matter how successful I become, there will always be someone who thinks I'm still just "goofing off." Even though I'm middle-aged, paying my own way, socking money into a retirement plan and a stock portfolio, I still get the question, "are you still working at that place?" from some of my relatives. It's still asked in a tone of voice that implies my career is nothing more important than a summer internship. I've had other writers who find out about some of my creative projects who then ask, "Hobbies are nice, but what about serious writing?"
It is so tempting to get angry at those reactions. I almost want to shake people, sometimes. But the other part of taking charge of my own adulthood is not to get angry or defensive at these folks. Instead I try to calmly and sincerely say, "Sorry you feel that way," then get on with my life.
I look around my life and ask what I've accomplished. I have a home with enough room for my own office, crammed with more books than I know what to do with, a new car that I love, our season tickets to a local musical theatre company, my myriad writing and publishing projects, my large group of intelligent and talented friends and a full social calendar, and a day job that involves publishing and writing and explaining. Wow! Adulthood is almost exactly how I pictured it--only more awesome than I imagined.
No wonder I'm happy.
The road of life may have some bumps, potholes, and the occasional detour, but all in all, life is as fabulous and you make it. To the folks who think I'm wasting my life, or who think I'm delusional because life isn't really all that awesome, all I can say is: Sorry you feel that way.
--Margaret Atwood