When I was a kid, I could never imagine myself past the age of twenty-five.

No idea why that was the cut-off, really. I mean, it’s a nice enough number; feels very official, somehow. A milestone, more than eighteen, nineteen, or twenty-one ever did.

The image in my head was always pretty vague, too. I didn’t know much about what I wanted out of adulthood, at that age, save for what was mainstream to want: maybe a house, maybe a husband, maybe kids. No thoughts for what I would actually be doing, though. How would I support myself? What were my goals? How would I feel?

Maybe: A House

I knew I couldn’t wait to move out. The second I was making enough money, I packed up what I could and parked myself in a laneway house in South Vancouver with one of my best friends, to start what felt like the beginning of my adult life. It was cute, filled with cackles, and just a bit chaotic; we called it the Little Blue Laneway.

Here’s a truth: I was a mediocre roommate, and it made me feel bad. Like, really bad. I knew that I’d be best living on my own, but I despaired of ever being able to afford renting by myself. And being tied down to a mortgage made my throat clog up with abstract horror. It barely even crossed my mind as a possibility, anyhow.

So you can maybe understand how shocked I was to be purchasing a whole-ass apartment, just shy of six months before I turned thirty.

Every step of the way, I felt like a fraud - what do you mean someone was letting me buy this place? I’d never handled this much money in my life, and they were trusting me to know things. It was terrifying. It happened so fast.

But I suppose that’s just how time operates.

(Gross.)

Maybe: A Husband

I think I was fourteen when my mom looked at me over the comically large kitchen table, in our bright yellow dining nook, and said something to the effect of: “You know, it’s okay if you’re a lesbian.”

When I came out to her at twenty-eight, as some nebulous flavour of pan/queer, I told her she was at least partially right.

Regardless of the shape they took, I’d always been fairly certain I wasn’t going to get married, and was therefore unconcerned about a spouse. The spectacle of a wedding was and is a little too much for me, as was tying myself to another person for life.

(Being “tied” to a mortgage, “tying” myself to another person. Do I… have commitment issues?)

(Could just be the ADHD.)

But, I know a lot more about relationships now, and the strong foundations I need for one, like trust, vulnerability, patience, humour.

None of that needs a legal document and a party to be real.

Maybe: Kids

A fuzzy-clear memory I have is from somewhere in my preteen years, walking back to the family car through a parking lot, and I turn around to look at my mom to declare that I will never, ever, have kids.

The only time - the only time - that I gave it any thought was when my high school boyfriend talked about having children, and I acted like he was the sun I revolved around. Other than that, it’s been a hard no. It still is a hard no.

But for some reason, this was the hardest one for other people to shake.

(I’m blaming the patriarchy, obviously!!!!)

Anyways, I know full well that there’s a possibility I could change my mind, or circumstances shift where I’m taking on the care of a tiny human, but I’m not sure anyone who’s ever told me some variation of “well, you never know!” or “that’s what I thought, too” realized just how much of my agency they’re trying to take away. As if what I say or choose in this matter has no bearing on what I was made for, which is horrible and horrifying and makes me want to shred some curtains with my bare hands.

I’m not even going to touch the body horror stuff because, yikes, y’all. Absolutely not.

And so?

At thirty-two, I feel settled in a vague way, in that I’ve figured some things out about myself, but understand I’ll always be unsettled in some way. To me, adulthood isn’t really a concept that can be concretely defined, no matter the milestones, age, or vision we attribute to it. Maturity wobbles along loop-de-loops that pretend they’re bell curves; people using whatever they think most valuable to present their version of being a grown-up. (Can you tell I want to talk about ageism so, so badly?)

Y’know, this started out as wanting to reflect on aging, but it derailed somewhere along the way and morphed into something else that still doesn’t feel completely finished.

… There’s probably a lesson in there, somewhere.