I Cannot Adult

Despite being in my “mid-to-late twenties” glory, I am not capable of adulting. (Adulting is an action verb, btw.) For those of you who need a definition, it really has many applications and many items signify adulting. Such items include: doing laundry (washing AND drying AND folding); eating 3 square meals a day; cooking said meals; dressing one’s self; arriving to work on time; washing one’s hair before it gets to the point where it’s so filthy it can hold a shape without product.

I cannot adult.

My husband has been out of town for a week. Now, I mean it, I was REALLY excited for him to leave. Unreasonably so. (Like, no offense if you’re reading this, babe – you’re not THAT bad.) I was excited to sit on the couch, to pick what Netflix shows were binged upon, to eat McDonald’s breakfast for dinner, stay in bed as late as I felt on the weekend, and to have some time to just ~chill~ by myself.

What. Was. I thinking.

Needless to say, it was a rough week. My hair was not washed as frequently as it should have been. One load of laundry has been sitting in the dryer for approximately 6 days. I did get to work on time all 5 days of this week, but I didn’t cook once, and I was rendered ill from the amount of sugar and fat I ingested. (Take out is only fun for so long, you guys.) My salt-swollen fingers are a testament to that. Add in 100 degree days and a humidity level that could scare even the most seasoned summer lovers, I basically became a puddle in human form.

Having the house to yourself is not all it’s cracked up to be. I officially missed my partner in crime after about two days, a threshold I thought I wouldn’t hit for several more days. I thought I would have been more productive, a newer, better version of myself  – a laundry doer, a dinner maker, proving how well I could handle myself. I don’t know who I was trying to impress, but in any case, I didn’t quite get there. The point is, as much as I value time to myself and my independence and my “freedom,” I really missed him and the things he brings to my day-to-day.

I’m excited to see him tomorrow, to have my partner back, and to have said partner cook a meal that cannot be described as a “McDinner.”

Welcome home, husband.

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