I thought becoming an adult would be obvious.

Perhaps there would be paperwork. A ceremony.

Someone would hand me a sensible coat, pat me on the back, and send me on my way.

Surely it would arrive with some dignity.

I imagined I would wake one morning with excellent posture and an organized closet. None of that has happened.

Instead, I am wearing mismatched socks.

I have noticed, however, that I am no longer being supervised.

More concerning, somewhere along the way I became the woman people call when they don’t know what to do.

And I listen.

I nod thoughtfully.

All the while, a much younger version of me is standing somewhere inside my head yelling,

“WHY ARE THEY ASKING US?”

Apparently, they’ve stopped checking IDs.