Does growing up have to hurt?

I am sitting at a cafe, waiting for a new friend to walk in at any time, and tell me what is wrong with her marriage. Post two cold brews, I get a text she isn't coming. Instead of going home, I decide to look around, stare at some more people, and try to read their lives from ten seconds of visual contact. I realise the last time I came to this mall was when I was almost a teenager. I was supposed to go back to my hostel by seven. But somehow, even with that kind of curfew, I seemed happier. The best part about being a teenager for me have to be those songs in my head. It's not like my adult head is a monk's cell, there are songs playing as I write this, but they seem to occupy less space somehow.

My next beverage arrives. It’s red, smooth and apparently healthy. My mind moves on to blenders, the powerful, 800 watt, can crush ice and beetroot - without crashing like Stranger Things’ demogorgon from Eleven’s stare - kinds. I have been meaning to buy one of those blenders as I have been told that smoothies are supposed to be an integral part of a healthy lifestyle. I also need to start saving up for a house, and maybe should start dating as well. 

Does growing up have to hurt? When I look at my morning routine, or travel for work during weekends, or give that drink a pass, it does. When I look at my waistline, or the fact that I would be staying in this weekend and follow some nine step skincare routine, it hurts even more. Adulthood is overrated, most say.  And what I have realized it that it sucks the most because your friends, who were available for you 24*7 earlier, have priorities now, and that you can no longer cry your eyeballs out for every little jolt you feel, or giggle over something really corny but good. You can’t discuss why Mr. Big (SATC) never deserved Carrie or why Phoebe Waller-Bridge is so fucking relatable.

Then I think of Fleabag, and Andrew Scott and then my mind is blank for a while, well, my watch says for more than an hour. I take a cab. I don’t have to ask anyone if I can stay out a little more. I look at my phone. I am supposed to call a friend who is simply stupid. Growing up, I had to laugh at his stupid jokes because I didn’t know I had a choice. Now I know I don’t have to laugh, or even pick his calls. I know it’s okay to not like people, and more importantly, to not be liked by people. I can’t stress the second part enough.

I reach my place, which, by the way, is cute. I have posters on my wall of things that actually mean something to me, not some random “Yes, I love Scorsese too, see I am so cool. Like you” shit. I have an option of right swipes followed by mindless sex followed by no guilt option. Not that you need to be a grown up to be able to right swipe, but the “no guilt’ part? C’mmon, that takes years to happen. It’s 2 am, and I can make Spaghetti Aglio e Olio like Shahrukh Khan. It’s 30th today and I am broke. But I know that if I have made it for ten freaking years, I will make it for another ten.

Does growing up have to hurt? You tell me.

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