Tetradecimal.

I can remember sitting around as a kid, enamored with the adults around me; their independence, their success, their general “adultness.” I hungered for it in the way a person hungers for that Venti Caramel Frappuccino with extra caramel the day after they decided they’d give them up. It wasn’t that I needed to be an adult to be happy; it was that I couldn’t have it, and I wanted it.

As you grow up and you begin to profess your undying desire to be an “adult,” people begin to counter it. They tell you it’s “over-rated,” or to “enjoy being young and carefree while you can.” They tell you how if they could trade places with you and run around the yard yelling, “TAG!” while pretending to be the ultimate super hero instead of doing their adult things, they would; in a heart beat. You laugh at the absurdity of the comment and think that certainly they’re just having a bad day or that they haven’t driven around their car fast enough today. So you continue to pine away, drunk with thoughts of how totally awesome being an adult is: no school, no curfews, and no parents telling you what to do. That is the life at the pinnacle of perfection because now instead of just pretending to be the ultimate super hero, you ARE the ultimate super hero.

Then that enlightening thing called “reality” sets in and you become that adult you’ve so endlessly hungered for all your life. But there is no high-fiving yourself or “Whooping!” for joy, instead you look around and think, “Where’s a good game of ‘Tag’ when you need one?”

I carry around that thought with me constantly. I have an incredible phobia of growing up. Why on earth is it even an option? It seems ridiculous that one would want to trade in Velcro sneakers with flashing lights for shoes that cost more than four months allowance.

And it is.

Or at least I think so.

What is it exactly that causes me such distress at the thought of growing up? And what does it mean to be, “grown up” exactly?

Being grown-up means having to be responsible: working, paying bills, taking care of yourself and others. It means doing what you might not necessarily want to because you “have” to. It means that, sure, you can stay up as late as you want but that there is no “snooze” button for life and the desperate plea of, “five more minutes mom!” often falls upon deaf ears, if it even falls upon any ears at all. Being grown-up means that you kind of have to trade your super hero cape for something a little less flashy and a little more conservative. And while that all sounds absolutely terrifying, is that what I’m really afraid of?

Perhaps another thought I carry around in my back pocket is that being grown up ultimately means being bitter. After living a life full of ups and downs, twists and gut wrenching turns, how on earth could you not become bitter?

And maybe that is my real fear: bitterness. Maybe, as a result of my definitively linking adulthood to bitterness, I have fooled myself into fearing adulthood instead of the real culprit. What a curiously twisted little world I live in.

And so I think maybe being an adult really isn’t all that bad. I can have a job, which means I can have a car, so I can go places I want to buy things I want and live where I want which ultimately means I really can do whatever it is that I want. And sure, some of that comes with catches like waking up on time, doing some things I might not necessarily want to do, having to take responsibility for my actions…but is it that bad?

And just like everything else in this glorious world, bitterness is a choice, not a mandatory step in the staircase of life. Surely I could choose to be bitter since it seems to be the “grown-up” way but I could just as easily choose to be excited. Fearless. Impossibly crazy about life.

Who says I have to give up games of “tag” anyway? And why can’t I still be the ultimate super hero? Let’s face it, successful, responsible, bitter free adults really are the closest thing to super heroes that we have. Why deny myself that sort of fun?

After all, I can do whatever I want.