I remember when it first hit me, deep in the throes of teenagehood.

It was late at night, and I was rambling to a good-natured friend on the phone. “Did you ever realize that, like, adults are just so…” I trailed off, wrinkling my nose. “It kinda freaks me out that I’m gonna be one.”

“Why?” my friend asked. “We’ll be able to drive.”

“And work,” I added gloomily. “Adults just don’t know how to have fun.” See, that was it. I walked from my kitchen to the living room to my bedroom, an existential crisis settling in.

I thought about adult parties with a shudder. When my mother went out, she got all dressed up for lame things, like going to a shul dinner.

And what did adults do there?

Wander around in little loose circles, nibbling at hors d’oeuvres and sharing polite giggles.

I paused, waiting for my friend to understand the gravitas of my explanation. “It’s just nerdy.”

She did not understand. “It’s probably fun for her,” she said. “Like, you wouldn’t like it, but for her, it’s an outing….”

But it was not fun. It was serious and somber and fancy. I liked Chagigah and GO trips and yelling and bouncing around and looking ridiculous. Dressing up for Purim in zany costumes, like a big, pink elephant. That was fun.

Have you ever seen a mother as an elephant on Purim? It would be mortifying.

And that was the worst of it — you couldn’t even act like a kid if you wanted to.

I looked out the window at the inkiness bleeding into the house. I just wanted my friend to understand. To drag her feet in childhood with me. “I like living like the world is one big party. Not… not…” my voice became plaintive. “Not shul dinners and PTA and wearing a pink headband over your fall when your entire family dresses up as Minnie Mouse. I don’t want to turn into that.”

“Yeah?” she said. I heard rustling from her side of the line. Maybe she was putting her homework away or making lunch… something responsible.

“And you know what I realized the other night? That’s literally what they planned for us all along.” Horror of horrors. “I’ve been duped!” I said. “I didn’t realize that the whole point of education was to turn me into an adult. Twelve years dedicated to this?”

Well, I wasn’t interested! I didn’t want an education. I wanted a refund.

But time is not refundable.

Here I am. A slightly dazed, freshly minted, sporadically recalcitrant adult.

Just the other day I went snowtubing. I got a push from the pink-nosed attendant into the cold night air.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Yup,” he answered, like he had already fielded one thousand frum kids and their prerequisite thanks.

I shot down that mountain like the most experienced kid tuber. I went down again, then a third time, the briny air clinging to my coat.

Then, something peculiar happened.

My toes got too cold, and the thrill less enticing. The fall less worth the climb.

So I joined the assemblage at the foot of the hill. You know the ones. The mommies and daddies and assorted adults, there for the sake of their children and not the rush of the tubing.

And me.

You may have seen me standing alongside you, waiting for the kids to come hurling down that snow-encrusted mountain.

I apologize if I didn’t smile at you and shake my head. If I didn’t murmur something about the cold and offer a rueful laugh at the faux pas of thinking rain boots would suffice as snow boots. (They do not. My poor toes.)

I am sorry I didn’t ask your name and instead stood there, feeling slightly out of place, in this sacred adult setting. I am new to this.

See, though I chose to stand at the foot of the hill instead of speeding down it, some part of me still wanted to want to fly down the hill, mouth open in uninhibited childlike laughter, licking at the joys of life as if they were a giant ice cream cone to be devoured.

But I am not a kid anymore.

And I am no longer uninhibited.

I’ve learned the silly, nice words — euphemisms! — adults use to explain things aren’t pointless, much as my blunt soul protests. They help protect those finicky things we call feelings.

I’ve learned of my own dignity and worth, and how silence can be the most beautiful, appropriate thing.

I’ve learned other things, too: Not to be embarrassed when asking for a refund, and to stand confidently and state what I need clearly.

I’ve learned that it’s true: Real life is harder than school, but in a wholly different way. I’ve learned that most things are not impossible, but take a boatload of effort and a hefty dose of grit.

I’m standing here with you, as an adult. And what’s shocked me the most at this adult-ish stage of life is the imperfectness. The imperfection of me.

Teenagers are perfect. It’s just the world that keeps wronging them.

As an adult, standing at the foot of the hill, I hold my own imperfections.

I catch myself before saying something that makes someone’s face fall. Sometimes, I realize, I am scared. Other times, I’m jealous. Jealous! Jealous of somebody else for the things they have and I do not! I get frustrated at small things and make mistakes I can’t undo.

It eats at me — I am so imperfect, so raw.

I peer up, and think just how much work I have to do to become the kind of adult that I look up to.

SO how do you do, adults from around the world?

Thank you for having me in this exclusive club, this imperfect sisterhood.

Nice to meet you all.

I’m still new; would you mind showing me the ropes?

I’ll try to keep my laughter in check if you do something particularly adulty. If you don’t mind though, could you give me directions to the adult table?

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 933)