What does it mean to be “grown up”, really?

I’ve written a bit about this before, but it’s one of those ideas that seems to wind it’s way through my mind, and, apparently, the minds of many of my so-called peers a lot lately. Other people out there in the world seem to have definite ideas about what being an adult entails (and don’t hesitate to tell me when they feel I don’t measure up), but I don’t think I want to subscribe to their definition, nor do I think I should.

Let me be clear, I’m not talking about not living up to the responsibilities my life requires of me; it’s terribly important to me to make sure that my work is done, my boss and customers are happy, my bills are paid, and my family’s needs are met. Taking care of those immediate things, as well as doing what I can here and there to leave my community, nation, and world in better shape than I found it, is simply the duty of any good employee, spouse, parent, and citizen, and I can’t really imagine not doing any of those things.

No, what I’m talking about is the expectation that just because I’ve survived for a certain number of years, I’m supposed to fundamentally change things about myself because of some long-forgotten rulebook says I’m supposed to. That point where the patriarchy says I’m supposed to shelve the interesting life I’ve built and exchange it for a traditional, gender-role approved humorless existence in the suburbs, engaging in certain pre-approved hobbies, watching reality tv, and voting Republican.

I really do reject that expectation. Just because I’m old enough to be elected President now doesn’t mean that I can’t continue to enjoy the “childish things” I’m supposed to “put aside”. I’m not going to put the toys and games away when the children aren’t around, nor am I going to turn down the music, stop reading comics, or stop going to events where people have lots of fun dressing like Stormtroopers, arguing about vampires, or speaking in exaggerated Elizabethan accents.

I’m going to continue to wear silly obscure T-shirts, jeans, and Converse sneakers, volunteer my time and money for idealistic liberal causes others may find frivilous because I haven’t forgotten “The Golden Rule” they taught me when I was five. I’m going to continue strapping on a pack and hiking though the woods for the simple pleasure of being in nature’s presence. I’m going to continue to ask “Why?” and never be quite satisfied with the answers I receive, even if I spend hours obsessing over those answers and reading books to find others. Then I might write about it on the internet, perhaps using coarse language, damn it.

I’m also going to continue to live in a household that operates in the way that works for those living in it; where chores are distributed according to aptitude or need, not along traditional gender-defined lines (I’m going to cook because I like it and I’m good at it!). And if my wife and kids and I want to put off vacuuming the floor for a few hours on a Saturday afternoon to storm a castle with dice, pencils and paper, that’s just what we’re going to do, and someone else’s sense of propriety is just going to have to live with it.

These are all things I enjoy doing, and enjoy doing with my wife and kids. Sharing them with receptive and enthusiastic compatriots brings me joy. Why should I be expected to give these things up just because some antiquated societal mores say I ought to?

I’ve always been fond of tossing out the phrase “One of these days, I’ll figure out what I want to be when I grow up”; usually, I’m usually referring to deciding on a career path (which, ironically, has been remarkably stable and lucrative for me for most of a decade now), but I think I may finally be starting to figure it out. When I grow up, if I grow up, I want to be the type of adult who never puts aside “childish” things or gives up playing games.