Realization of Domestication

I’m not quite sure when it happened. When my life turned from that of someone in their 20s, surviving off cheap tacos delivered by UberEATS and the pride that came with being able to function on a max of 4 hours of sleep at night, to that of someone who has been “domesticated”. I use this term in parentheses because that’s what we always did at school or over drinks during 2 for 1’s on Thursdays. Ever since *insert random girls name here whom we enjoyed discussing but cared literally nothing about* moved in with her boyfriend, she’s been sooooo “domesticated”. or Yeah, *again lets pick an irrelevant human here* just graduated and already the domestication process has started.

My friends and I used this term not to insult or think less of these people, but more out of confusion on how someone our age could be so grown up already, while we still viewed ourselves as slightly larger children with a few added responsibilities (LOL.. right?). Now is a good time to admit that whenever something bad would happen and the normal response for a younger individual would be “go find an adult”. . we were still searching for said adult. And we were horrified to learn THAT WAS NOW US. WE WERE THE ADULTS. This then changed into “Can we find like. . .  a more adult adult?”.

They always say at the age of 18 you’ve become an adult. You’ve done it. Congratulations, the state qualifies you legally as having met all the requirements to know everything there is to know to be a functioning member of society on paper and it is now your responsibility to take this newfound honor and GO FORTH, my friend. But thats a lie. Complete and total lie. No amount of time can prepare you for this “adult” title.

But now lets get back to this domestication thing. I watched it happen to my sorority little sister as soon as she graduated, and don’t get me wrong she’s done well. She got that degree, moved across state into a 2 bedroom town home with her boyfriend & dogs, and began working a normal job. She spends her off days relaxing, and is in bed most nights at a reasonable hour. Just to rise the next day to kiss the boyfriend good-bye and head to work.

I watched it happen to my best friend. She’s graduated, living with her soon to be doctor boyfriend (goals right here if we’re being honest..) in a nice apartment, taking care of their rabbit, and working another normal job. They enjoy activities together, such as working out at the gym (not goals. definitely not goals.) or traveling, and their Instagram photos are the cute kind you see as the example photos in photo frames on display at Home Goods. She’s happy and building a life she’s content with. She’s “domesticated”.

But this morning it hit me. I’ve become my own form of “domesticated”. Yes, it has happened. I’m not sure how, and I’m not sure when. . but the process was put in motion and as I sat at a red-light on my morning commute to the new part-time job I’ve acquired. . I realized it. I am now someone with a “morning commute”. Someone who wakes up every day, gets in her car at 7:13am precisely, because any later and I end up behind this landscaping crew who’s god-awful truck blows remnants of their work all over my vehicle the entire 4.5 miles it takes to get to the office. But never before 7:13am, because then I end up behind a slew of school buses and are forced to stare into the face of a demon child I’ve named Jimmy, that presses his face against the emergency exit door window and licks it until he can tell I feel uncomfortable and then laughs. God help his parents. I hope he gets some strange bacterial infection off that window and learns his lesson.

I always stop at Dunkin Donuts for my medium frozen french vanilla coffee, at 7:24am, and wave to Gina (again, not her actual name but she totally looks like a Gina) who drives a dark blue Passat with a license plate that has YELL in it.. causing me to assume Gina has some hidden issues here, hence why Gina is always allowed to pull in front of me at the drive-thru regardless of who’s turn it actually is. I walk into work around 7:35am, and head upstairs to chat with a co-worker or two before coming down to my desk to start the day.

At lunch, things get REAL exciting. I typically head to my car to charge my phone, which is almost always about dead due to the amount of Pinterest and Twitter I’ve been doing to occupy downtime at work, and I eat a snack or two. And I sit. I make lists, or answer some emails. I’ll call my mom and rant about whatever has crossed my mind, or I’ll check Tinder to see if any new creepy men have decided to ask me to meet their Mom yet. (You would be surprised how often this occurs). I check SnapChat and live vicariously through my friends who are abroad or off living new lives in big cities. And then after an hour I return to work.

My day ends around 5pm, and I have the afternoon commute home. This one is slightly more exciting, because if I leave the building by 5:03pm, I end up in traffic next to a man in a very large black truck (Let’s call this player, Lance) and I can spend 4.5 miles trying to make eye contact with big-truck man Lance while not rear-ending  Kia Forte Sue, whom is driving in front of me. Lance has a lot to offer a lady. I can just tell by the hunting stickers on his back window, and country music he blares from his speakers. But the real kicker about Lance? He wears a suit. So we’ve got some party in the back and business in the front action going on here, which I must admit has me rather intrigued. (Don’t lie. You’d like to drive next to Lance too.)

Then, I’m home. I take a shower, say hello to my parents, eat dinner, and BAM. .  in bed by 9pm. But when did this happen?? When did I become. . “domesticated”?? I can’t quite use the term “adult” just yet. . because my mom has been doing my laundry lately, bless her. But we’re getting there! Which brings me both a sense of pride and slight depression. Because this is yet another realization that I have entered the real world, despite my greatest wishes not to. But until my next adventure comes along, or until my car breaks down on the commute home. .  forcing big-truck Lance to chivalrously pull over to help, fall madly in love with my sarcastic sense of humor and the Netflix membership I come with, just to inform me of his Fortune 500 company job and then offer to support me until the end of time so I can just raise our children & attend PTA meetings with donuts. . I will continue to embrace this new lifestyle. And I will continue to be “domesticated”.