Wednesday, October 28, 2015 // The Statement
8B

T

he first thing I ever wanted to be when I grew up 
was “success.” I was three. 

Before I wanted to be a princess, ballerina, 

fashion designer, writer, “happy,” I wanted to be “success.” 
Perhaps I’d heard my parents studying ESL vocabulary at 
night. Perhaps it convinced them that I should skip pre-K.

I was always the youngest in my class, but I didn’t care 

because I knew what the word “pre-co-shus” meant. Every 
day after school, my friends and I would play Pretend on the 
Thompson Elementary playground. As per usual, Mikayla 
would shout, “I’m the mom!” Erin would ask, “Can I be the 
oldest sister?” Casey would call: “Best friend who’s a model-
artist-actress!”

And I would declare, “I’m 20!”

***

I’m 20. It’s my third year in college and I break the news 

to my friends: I’ll be graduating this May. I tell them that it’s 
the most “fiscally responsible” decision for an out-of-state 
student. I tell them that I have no regrets — I’ve taken all 
the classes I wanted, and really, the biggest disappointment 
is that I can’t get into Rick’s legally before I leave.

They say they’re impressed — impressed that I can be 

financially independent, impressed that I can double major 
in three-quarters the time. I revel in “impressed.” I feel like 
“success.” I become a self-fulfilling prophecy — I complain 
that I’m getting tired of the same 40,000 faces, the same bars 
and small stadium. I’m outgrowing Ann Arbor, impatient to 
start a career in New York where I “belong.”

***

“How old are you, sweetie?” A perky woman knelt down 

to my level in the backstage dressing room.

“Eight,” I chirped. I was five, but I angled the bronzer 

brush deftly on my cheekbones, and I held the eyeliner pen 
without stabbing myself, so she didn’t question me twice.

At age three, I cried before my first dance recital when 

Mommy was nowhere to be found and some random lady 
did my eyeshadow instead. I cried after, when Daddy 
carried me to the car, hissing in my ear, “Big girls don’t cry 
in public.” I learned to do my own eyeshadow like a big girl 
after that.

At 12, I started wearing makeup to school and couldn’t 

wait to be associated with 
the word “teen.” So for 
my 13th birthday, I sent 
for a Seventeen magazine 
subscription. When the first 
issue came, my parents were 
appalled — an early Taylor 
Swift graced the cover, 
pouting in bubblegum pink: 
“The new hookup rules you 
need to know!”

At my first week of 

college, I blew out 18 candles 
of innocence on a cake 
that read, “You’re an adult, 
Karen!” My mom texted me 
the morning after: “What’d 
you 
for 
your 
birthday? 

Where’d you go?”

I 
remembered 
how 

mature I felt the night 
before, red solo cup in hand, 
leading my new friends 
down the street — my legs 
half everyone’s height but 
my pace five-steps ahead. 
The “Boston-walk,” they 

called it, a product of my East Coast upbringing. 

Annoyed, I texted my mom back: “Stop worrying, I’m an 

adult now.”

***

“You talk so fast,” he laughed. “Is that a Boston thing or is 

that just a Millennial thing?”

He sat 16 years my senior and I sat in my Forever 21 dress 

at the five-star seaport restaurant he chose. As he excused 
himself for the bathroom, I rushed to stalk his Instagram, 
scrolling until I hit a #throwback to his high school formal 
circa 1995 — about five months before I was born.

My friend Caroline’s jabbing voice echoed in my head: “I 

would save the 35-year-old until you’re at least 30.”

So I confessed to him: “My friends don’t think I should 

date older men.” He chuckled and shrugged, “Do what you 
want.”

That sure sounded simpler than Caroline’s advice: “You 

aren’t living life at the age you are.”

At his place later, he asked, “How old are you again?”
At 19, I had survived by first summer internship in New 

York; I was paying for a “cultured” apartment all by myself; 
I ate $1 pizza only four times a week. But in that moment, 19 
never held so much shame. I rolled over, catching glimpse of 
a shiny gold band on his nightstand.

“Are you … married?” my voice raised in alarm. He sighed.
“Yeah, my wife and three kids are gonna be home soon … 

So actually you need to leave.” His voice stood stone cold, 
his stare serious — before he broke into laughter, explaining 
how the ring was just a prop from work.

I laughed along, but Caroline’s voice rang again: “You 

don’t have to grow up this fast. Later you’re going to feel 
like you missed out.”

***

After four months of summer apart, Hannah and I 

have finally caught up with everything we’ve missed. By 3 
p.m., we still haven’t moved from her bed, our to-do lists 
neglected in the moment.

“We need to get up and be productive,” I declare.
“OK, you’re right,” she says. “The theme of this year 

will be adulting – to setting limits on partying, to grocery 

shopping instead of eating out, to applying for real jobs.”

“To adulting!” we cheer. Then we cuddle closer, watch 

another rom-com and talk about our celebrity crushes. 
Later, we dance on a balcony to Taylor Swift songs; we jump 
around in a bounce house then blow regrettable amounts of 
money on pizza. 

The next morning, I stare at the U.S. map above her bed, 

decorated with photos of us and our friends. Google says the 
distance from New York to Michigan is a 10 hour drive, or a 
$400 flight. I think about “financial responsibility.”

Even now, when she’s only a 15-minute walk away, I 

tell her, “I can’t tonight, I have this article due.” She can’t 
tonight either, she’s curled up with her boy in the same spot 
I just slept. When we both grow up, will we ever pay $400 
to “can”?

I realize I sound like a 50-year-old at mid-life crisis — and 

I have nowhere near the agency to make the lamentations 
that I do. My life has thus far afforded me privileges — 
and the privilege of making mistakes. But, only now do I 
wish I had listened to Caroline at least a little — learned to 
wear makeup a little later, blown out the birthday candles 
a little less prematurely, relished my remaining time as an 
immature college student a little longer.

As I hurry across the Diag, a student shoves a flier into 

my hand: “Meet your fellow freshmen — party at the rock 
tonight!” More self-conscious than offended, I refrain from 
my usual snarky, “Sorry, I’m a senior.”

Instead, I take the paper, smile and say, “Thanks.”

Adulting

by Karen Hua, Daily TV/New Media Editor

PHOTOS COURTESY OF KAREN HUA

