I Thought Stamps Would Be A Bigger Deal

I remember when batteries would be on the list.

Batteries. Bandaids. Stamps.

I thought stamps were going to be a bigger deal as an adult. My mom still complains about going to the post office on the daily. I can’t remember the last time I went; I could count on one hand in my two years of LA life.

I remember thinking dinner parties would be a bigger deal too. Better buy that platter tray, you’ll have people over one day. You’ll need that matching towel set for the bathroom you imagine your guests complimenting.

Turns out, I’ve used the platter about as often as I go to the post office.

I just finished my spring cleaning, and when I say spring cleaning, I mean I somehow managed to touch every single thing in this apartment. Top to bottom, she shines.

And now I’m sitting on my couch, biting my lip, listening to Alanis Morissette’s “Thank U” float from the speaker. For once, there’s nothing left to avoid, nothing left to clean.

So I’m left with this question:

What do I want to do when I’m not avoiding anything?

I thought adulthood would be:

• Having a signature dish (it’s eggs, and it’s still eggs)

• Sending holiday cards (did it once, never again)

• Owning a guest towel set (it sits there, untouched)

• Never losing socks (adulthood is losing socks, but with intention)

• Buying stamps for all the mysterious mail I assumed I would need to send

But adulthood, as it’s turning out, is something quieter. Something smaller. Something softer.

It’s doing that thing even when you don’t feel like it.

It’s taking a deep breath before checking your bank account.

It’s forgiving the version of you who didn’t know how to handle last year.

It’s learning that you can feel lonely and grateful in the same afternoon.

It’s letting yourself want an attagirl—and learning how to give it to yourself.

Alanis sings, “Thank you silence.”

Maybe that’s what this is. A quiet, glowing apartment. A Sunday afternoon. A clean sink. A breath.

Maybe adulthood isn’t the dinner party you thought you needed to prepare for, but the way you let yourself feel proud in the silence that follows after you’ve done what needed to be done.

Maybe it’s learning to celebrate the small, unseen victories. The ones that don’t get a like, a nod, or a gold star. The ones where you witness yourself.

Maybe it’s giving yourself the attagirl you’ve been waiting for.