Half adult week.

I turned 20 and a half years old this week. And no, Mom, this post isn’t to shame you for forgetting to send me a half a cake.
I feel like I just turned 20. Have I said before (or three thousand times)  how quickly time goes by? I have to stop blinking.
I celebrated my half birthday by spending the whole day either in class or at my internship. Then I came home and found out I’m not as tough as I thought I was when a cicada invaded. There was much folder wielding, small yelping, and terror.
“Cicadas are too crunchy,” I told Liesel. “That scares me.”
Yes, apparently I’m afraid of crunchy things, although I do quite well with chips and granola and fall leaves. Perhaps it’s just big, angry bugs that would crunch if I squashed it.
That’s probably an irrational fear.
Some days I feel more adult than others.
I suppose today was a more adult day, as I completed office tasks and redeemed my four free books for the month at the bookstore. I picked Faulkner, L’Engle, Dickinson, and a poetry anthology my professor wrote. How incredible to find your professor in a book store.
Then I ran to the L stop because it was raining and joined the masses of after-work commuters. I sat next to a woman who turned out to be a fashion designer. She gave me her card, “because I know you need alterations.”
Yes, I do. I’m tall. And thin in some places.
I made a few phone calls and sent a few emails, some with mildly fighting words. I’m a midwesterner, so simply standing up for what I understood to be the situation when someone contradicts it feels like picking a fist fight.
No fist fights, just carefully worded and researched emails.
And now I’m accepting responsibility for an oversight that wasn’t mine.
This feels like an adult day, doesn’t it?
Compromise and keeping on seem to be the themes of adulthood. At least, as much as I understand it.

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