Just Guyton

By the time I was ten years old, I knew exactly what I wanted to be when I grew up.

A writer.

That part, strangely enough, I had figured out.

Now, here I am, almost fifty, finally doing the thing that ten-year-old me somehow knew I was supposed to do.

You’d think with nearly five decades of life experience under my belt, I’d have a few other things figured out by now too.

You would be wrong.

There are so many things I thought I’d understand by this age.

For starters, fitted sheets.

Almost fifty years on this earth and I still don’t believe anyone actually knows how to fold one. Some people are simply better at lying about it—or practicing witchery.

I thought I’d remember why I walked into a room.

Nope.

I can walk from one side of the house to the other with absolute determination, arrive at my destination, and have absolutely no idea why I’m there.

Maybe it’s the perimenopause.

Maybe it’s just me.

At this point, I can’t remember what I came in here for, so I’m certainly not qualified to solve the mystery.

But something embarrassing I said twenty years ago?

Oh, my brain has kept that tucked away in its own personal Rolodex.

Filed, alphabetized, and ready for immediate playback at 2:17 in the morning.

Apparently, my brain can’t remember why I walked into the kitchen, but it has an impeccable filing system for embarrassment.

And can we talk about dinner?

How, after all these years, am I still surprised that dinner happens every single night?

Didn’t we just do this yesterday?

Do I cook? Do we get takeout?

But wait—does the place I want takeout from use seed oils?

Maybe I should just cook at home.

But then I have to figure out what to cook.

Do I even have everything I need?

And somehow, forty-five minutes later, I’m still standing in the kitchen, hungry, scrolling through takeout menus, wondering how feeding myself and my husband became a full-time decision-making process.

At this point, I’m starting to think the hardest part of adulthood isn’t paying bills.

It’s deciding what’s for dinner.

I also thought I’d eventually reach an age where I felt like a proper adult.

You know, one of those people who has things under control.

This is clearly not the case.

My husband and I are still buying board games, Legos, Care Bears, and video games like we’re two kids who somehow got access to adult money.

And I’m not even sure I want to figure that one out.

Every once in a while, I still catch myself thinking:

I need an adult.

And then I remember…

Oh, hell. I am the adult.

Of course, some of the things I haven’t figured out are bigger than fitted sheets and what’s for dinner.

I still don’t always know the difference between trusting my gut and overthinking.

For instance, sometimes we’re in the car and my anxiety decides it’s time to start raging. I make these weird little noises that probably make absolutely no sense to anyone but me.

Then I turn to my husband and say,

“Don’t mind me. I’m just Panicking Skywalker.”

Because apparently, if I’m going to spiral, I might as well give myself a Star Wars name.

I don’t always know when to hold on and when to let go.

I haven’t figured out how to stop worrying about things that haven’t happened yet—or why I can have an entire argument in my head with someone who isn’t even in the room.

Hello, schizophrenia. Apparently, we’re holding meetings now.

Somewhere along the way, I realized there isn’t some secret level of adulthood where everything suddenly makes sense.

Turns out…

Nobody actually knows what they’re doing.

We’re all just winging it—some with varying levels of confidence and some with different shades of eyeliner.

Some people have planners.

Some have five-year plans.

Some have color-coded calendars.

And some of us are standing in the kitchen wondering why we walked in there.

We’re all doing our best.

And maybe that’s one of the things I have figured out as I get closer to fifty.

Having life figured out isn’t the point.

We’re supposed to change our minds. Make wrong turns. Start over. Learn things the hard way. Laugh at ourselves. Occasionally make a complete mess of things and clean it up tomorrow.

At ten, I knew I wanted to be a writer.

Almost forty years later, I’m finally sitting here writing.

Maybe some things take longer than we thought they would.

Maybe some things we’re never going to figure out.

And maybe that’s okay.

Because at almost fifty, I don’t have all the answers.

But I’ve got stories to tell.

And if all else fails…

I’ve got eyeliner.

— GUYTON