Yes. Yes. And yes!
This is not a fact I’m comfortable saying out loud. And yet…on Labor Day, I turned twenty-eight. I’m about to be married, have only a dissertation left between me and my last degree, and am pretty sure that my cells are dying at a faster rate than they’re replenishing. Late twenties, I am in you.
As such, I’m technically classified as an adult. We all know this is ludicrous, of course. Adult women don’t regularly board themselves into their offices, just because there’s a roach with talons roaming the house. They kill it with their bare hands, then get back to making deals, taking names, and—fuck all, I don’t know—sewing heirloom quilts or something. I was pretty sure that, when I finally made it to technical adulthood, some know-how would kick in. I’d be a-okay with doing the hard jobs and consuming five vegetables a day…
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