Adulthood

The worst part about being a grownup has got to be the paperwork. A constant stream of it, coming from store clerks and bank tellers and the mailman, pouring in, day after day, filling every pocket, every purse, every drawer, every shelf — paper everywhere.

And I’ve even opted in to paperless billing and opted out of credit-card offers and whatnot. Still, the stuff overwhelms me.

I had a frantic ten minutes today when I realized I’d forgotten to pay my student loan yesterday, and ripped around the apartment, looking for the current statement or an old statement — any freaking statement — so I could call and make my payment over the phone. (My particular loan cannot be paid online, which is so stupid I can hardly stand it.) I pilfered through drawer after drawer and stack after stack and couldn’t put my hands on a single old statement, even though I know I’ve saved lots.

(Those of you readying lectures in your head about how I need to have that information organized and/or written down in an easily accessible place can just feel bask in the notion that you are a better adult than I am. I’m not ashamed.)

Finally, after making up roughly seven new curse words and squawking them all, I found a statement from November under the tray on my coffee table. I made the call, paid the bill, and then cut out the account number and taped it to the fridge. Because that’s the only fucking way I will not lose it again.

I surveyed the paper carnage left in the wake of my hissy fit, and decided it was time to get rid of some shit. And how cathartic it is to excavate drawers full of old bills and statements and mail not even meant for you, and stand there, ripping each and every piece of piece of paper and tossing it to the ground in a symbolic fuck-you to the clutter of meticulously documented adulthood.

Granted, I probably didn’t rip diligently enough to thwart the identity thieves who pilfer through our dumpster every week, but, luckily, I have a very professional shredder on retainer.