What does it mean to be an adult? How do you become an adult? Is it leaving the “teen” years behind? Does it happen in one instant, that one second when, on your birthday, your age goes from 19 to 20? If that’s how it works, are you supposed to have it all figured out in that instant? Is there some secret code, or an ancient parchment you get to read when you turn 20? Because if there is, nobody showed it to me! Where’s my fairy Godmother to tell to me how to adult? Because, to be honest, I have no idea what I’m doing. Do any of us know what we’re doing? Maybe we’re just figuring it out as we go … At least that’s what I’ve been doing so far. Is there a class I can take? Because I have a lot of questions. Where do I sign up for Adulting 101?
Chapter 1: Wool Doesn’t Go in the Dryer
Hot. Way too hot. It can’t be described as warm, or sunny, or humid. It’s hot, painfully and inescapably hot. It’s also September 20th. On the eve of autumn, it is ridiculously hot! As I walk up McTavish I can only dream of two things: one, that my bag was less heavy and two, can it be sweater weather already?! Walking up McTavish is always a pain and every time I’m at the bottom of the hill looking up at Mount Royal, I wonder, “Why did I choose Education?” If I had known the education building was that one building all the way at the top or, in other words, at the end of the freaking world, I might have chosen something else, like Arts.
“Think of your calves,” Jenny says, her short hair bouncing up and down as she starts walking the street.
“If we climb this hill every day, our calves will look like those of a bodybuilder’s in four years.”
Four years. That’s how long it’ll take for us to finish our bachelors. Four years at McGill. That’s 15 seasons, 12 of them spent at school and 3 summers working minimum wage jobs while wishing to be on a terrace drinking sangria.
“Imagine the winter, when the street will be covered with ice” Jenny adds, out of breath, waiting for the light to turn green so we can cross Docteur Penfield Avenue.
“First snowflake, I’m buying crampons”, I answer. She chuckles. My legs are on fire, but I can finally see the door of the education building. I should have majored in Arts!
***
I’m chewing on my pen, sprawled across my bed, looking over a 24 pages’ essay by doctor whatever, who believes that classrooms should be smaller, while Grey’s Anatomy plays in the background as white noise. A distant beeping drags me out of my not-so-concentrated mode. I get up, with my 24 pages and my pen, and walk to the washing machine. In my apartment, the washer and dryer happen to be in the kitchen, right next to the table where my roommate usually studies. Right now, she’s frowning at her anatomy book. I open the washer, trying to read at the same time, and carelessly throw my clothes in the dryer. I press start and walk back to my room. I drop on my bed and flip the page. As if struck by lightning, I jump on my feet.
“Crap!”
I run to the dryer and open the door violently. I take my wool sweater out.
“I almost shrank my shirt,” I tell Kat, laughing now that I know my shirt is fine.
“Why are you washing that anyway? It’s 29 degrees outside!”
“It was in a box all summer, now it’s all fresh and clean for when it gets cold.”
“Uh-huh…”
Her eyes never leave the page of the book as she spoke.
“I can see medicine is fascinating!”
“Medicine is fascinating,” she answers, “but colonoscopy isn’t.”
I laugh. Reaching in the fridge, I grab a bag of baby carrots and the olive hummus. Behind a jar of pickle, I spot a pack of those expensive yogurts. There’s 4 left, and also a blue sticker on them. Blue sticker means they belong to Andy, my other roommate. Well… 4 or 3 yogurts, he won’t remember how many he had left. I grab one, shut the refrigerator’s door behind me, grab a spoon, and sit at the table with Kat.
“What’cha reading?” My mouth is full of yogurt as I speak.
“Conditions that call for colonoscopies include gastrointestinal hemorrhage, unexplained changes in bowel habit and suspicion of malignancy. Colonoscopies are often used to diagnose colon cancer, but are also frequently used to diagnose inflammatory bowel disease.”
“Oh, you were not kidding when you said you were reading about that!”
“Nope!”
I glance at my food. “I’m not that hungry anymore.”
“I am,” she adds, pulling the bag of carrots to her.
I can hear my phone ringing all the way from my room. I grunt and get up. I grab my phone and look at the caller’s ID: Mom.
“Hey honey,” she says when I answer.
“Hey mom!”
“How are you?” she asks, her familiar voice making me smile.
“Good! Finally got over that cold I got because of Frosh!”
“You should eat more vegetables, you would be less sick.”
“That’s pretty much all I eat, mom!”
“You know that eating that generic grocery store food is bad for you, you should eat organic!”
“I don’t have the money to eat organic, mom!”
Now she’s starting to annoy me. I sit on my bed, searching for something to occupy my hands. I grab the Rubik’s Cube on my bedside table and wedge my phone between my ear and shoulder.
“How’s school?” she asks.
In the background, I can hear a kettle whistling.
“It’s ok. I have a lot of homework.”
“Already? It’s only been a few weeks!”
“I’m not in Cegep anymore, mom, university is another game!”
My alarm clock catches my eye and I realize what time it is.
“Hey, mom, I’m going to be late to meet my friends for a team project, I’ll call you back later!”
“Oh… Well, okay honey! Have fun. I love you!”
“Love you too, bye!”
I hang up, shove my computer in my bag and sit on my bed to put my shoes on.
“Kat?” I call out.
“What?”
“Do you mind putting the hummus in the fridge so it doesn’t go bad?”
“Mmh…” she answers.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I say to myself.
I grab my phone and head for the front door. I’ve already started down the staircase when I turn around, walk back up to the apartment, grab my keys on the little hook next to the door and head out again. Three blocks down the street I take a right and head for the metro. This process is now automatic for me, even though I just moved to Montreal. Push open the heavy door to the metro, wait on the right side of the escalator, place my phone on the card pad to let me onto the train platform because my Opus card is in my phone case, and take the train towards Angrignon. I get off at Peel and search for the address of my rendezvous on my phone. I walk fast towards Myriade coffee shop, mostly because I’m late, but also because people walk fast in Montreal. I zigzag between the pedestrians to avoid walking behind a smoker until I reach my destination. I walk down the staircase to the coffee shop, admiring the décor. In a corner, sitting on the greyish-blue bench, are my friends, waving excitedly at me.
“You’re fashionably late,” says Tristan, his freshly cut red hair making him look like a rooster.
“She probably forgot,” adds Ryan.
I flash him my best smile with a wink.
“Do you want anything before we start working?” Jenny asks.
“Sure…”
I turn around to look at the menu and feel like someone just knocked the wind out of me, leaving my lungs gasping for air like a fish out of water. Behind the coffee machine with the word “Myriade” written on it in glowing white letters, is the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my entire life…
Image obtained from:
https://farm1.staticflickr.com/486/19032919443_69ba016870_c.jpg