Maturity is defined as:
“Adult development and maturity theories include the purpose in life concept, in which maturity emphasizes a clear comprehension of life’s purpose, directedness, and intentionality which, contributes to the feeling that life is meaningful.”
Whatever that means. I’m sure it means something to somebody smarter, and likely better looking than me, but it doesn’t mean much to me. Plus, I just pasted it and really didn’t read it. Better yet, let’s look at my personal maturity check list (in no particular order):
- Own a home. Not really. The bank does. You just get to live there. So that’s something.
- Pay bills on time. Mostly. What water bill?
- No longer max out credit cards. Except for that one you keep in the drawer.
- Paying off an impressive student loan for an English degree. Good for you. So, why haven’t you listed on your resume that you comprehend Romanticism, literary deconstructionism, and postmodern, reflexive, meta- fiction texts that make you go hmmmmmm? Just curious.
Don’t go out on school nights. True, but you’re hard pressed to go out on the nights you are supposed to, so don’t get all self-congratulatory.
- Drive like an adult. When turning in traffic, I signal, turn into the nearest lane, and then signal to get into the furthest lane.
As opposed to all those assholes who turn into the furthest lane like the f’ing own it and cut you off. You dick. I hope you roll that big stupid truck.
- Work. You go to it, care about things related to it, and appreciate the pay cheque. Good for you.
- Own fancy cooking pots and accoutrements. Those Gordon Ramsey pots don’t make you a BEEPING better cook, you BEEPING moron.
- With above, cook meals with nutritional value. Sort of. Less BK poutine would be a start.
- Get regular oil changes for a vehicle I paid off. Why does those oil change joints use such effective manipulation tactics. “Have you changed you filly-filter recently? If not, you’re engine may spontaneously combust, destroying everything you love and worked for.
And blah, blah, blah. I’m mature. You get the picture. Overall, I’d give myself a B+ on the maturity report card. What do you think?
You see, Griffin, my dog, is suddenly spending all his time with RL (man of the house). I hear them laughing/barking, giggling/grrring, doggy-talking/yipping without me. Griffin and I were inseparable. Where I went, Griffin was at my feet; on the couch, he was at my side or wrapped about my neck like a Chihuahua stole. Now, he barely tolerates me. He humours me as I doggie talk, cuddle, and break out the old standard games we
used to love like “here comes the pincers” and “where’s your whale.” It’s like he’s tolerating having coffee with the office bore. As soon as he can, he makes a beeline for elsewhere. It hurts.
Last night I went to bed early (like a mature person) and called for Griffin as we always sleep together. Nothing. RL brought him up from their private basement domain, but Griffin wouldn’t stay with me. He would race after RL. It made me sad. I started to think negative thoughts. I started to feel threatened. I started to tap into my inner teen. What would that teen do to protect her feelings. Well, she would slam the door to ensure everyone knew she was hurt, mad, jealous, upset. So, that’s what I did. I slammed the door to teach Griffin a lesson for rejecting me. “I’ll show him,” I thought. I even considered going on a doggy care strike. Sure, I’d still feed him. But there would be no more fun game playing, warm blanket giving, awesome toys giving, caring grooming like tooth brushing and ear cleaning, etc. He would be made to feel remorseful for his rejection of me.
In the stark light of day, I’m ashamed.
I’m happy that RL and Griffin have a totally fab relationship. I love hearing their joyful playing echoing from downstairs and hope that continues for many years to come!
But the immature me thinks we need another tiny puppy!