I distinctly remember being little and always wanting to be older. As a kid, I wanted to be a teen; as a teen I wanted to be an adult. Adulthood seemed like a magical land where you got to make your own decisions and live by your own rules. You could have Frosted Flakes for dinner, go to bed at 3am, wake up at noon and wear pyjamas all day. Adulthood was that fantastic place where no one could tell you what to do, send you to your room, or force you to make polite conversation with people you didn’t like. Adulthood was the goal. I don’t know many kids who didn’t think, “I can’t wait to be a grown up.” I certainly did. I longed for independence and the freedom to do as I pleased.

And then one day, it happened to me. I was a grown up. I lived on my own, I ate what I wanted,  slept for too many hours or none at all, and came and went as I pleased. And it was glorious, for a time. And then along came bills and rent and taxes and grocery lists and laundry piles and a job I disliked and forced polite conversation with the people who signed my pay cheque and essay due dates and all-nighters and student debt. Along came reality.