I thought adulthood would be about freedom. I would have my own house, make my own decisions, and eat cake for dinner if I wanted. All of that turned out to be true. What no one mentioned was that I would spend most of that freedom scheduling appointments, changing filters, buying replacement parts, and trying to remember which password I used for the electric company.
Adulthood is mostly maintenance.
Everything I own requires regular attention simply to remain exactly as it is. The house needs to be cleaned so it can become dirty again. The lawn needs to be cut so it can continue growing. The pool needs chemicals so it can remain a large, expensive hole filled with water. The car needs oil changes, tire rotations, inspections, registration, and the occasional mysterious repair that costs $1,200 despite involving a part roughly the size of a grape.
Nothing ever stays handled. The air-conditioning filter I replaced eventually needs to be replaced again, which feels like a failure on its part. I already replaced you. Why are we revisiting this? Apparently, filters are not purchases. They are subscriptions. The smoke detector operates under a similar arrangement, except it prefers to announce its renewal in the middle of the night.
The same is true of groceries and laundry. I can fill the refrigerator completely, and within days, everyone is wandering around the kitchen announcing that there is nothing to eat. There is food. There just is not food that magically prepares itself, serves itself, and leaves no dishes behind. Evidently, that distinction matters. Meanwhile, I have done laundry approximately 87,000 times, yet no one has ever remained permanently clothed as a result. The moment the last towel is folded, someone takes a shower. The hamper is never empty. It is merely gathering strength.
Even basic personal maintenance has become a small administrative department. My hair needs products. My skin needs products. My nails require appointments, and every product I already own is apparently missing one essential ingredient found only in a slightly more expensive product. I have a morning routine, an evening routine, and apparently need a separate routine for maintaining the routines.
Pets are no better. They need food, water, medicine, grooming, litter, vaccinations, and emergency veterinary care whenever they make an unfortunate tactical decision involving a neighborhood coyote. You can spend $5,000 repairing a cat, bring him home safely, and watch him immediately attempt another activity proving that he learned absolutely nothing from the experience. The cat has nine lives. Apparently, I am responsible for financing all of them.
Children begin as one enormous maintenance project and gradually become adults who are remarkably independent until they need something only you know how to find. Apparently, that is the one time they forget their phones can do more than send text messages. You spend years keeping them alive, teaching them to function independently, and explaining that wet towels do not dry properly when abandoned on the floor. Eventually, they grow up and call to ask for a password you have already given them six times or whether chicken is still safe to eat after sitting out all night.
Everything needs to be charged. My phone needs charging. My laptop needs charging. My headphones need charging. Even my toothbrush has joined the electrical grid. Half of my adult life is spent looking for the correct cord for an object that promised to make the other half more convenient. Every cord I find belongs to something I no longer own.
Paperwork is its own form of maintenance. Licenses expire. Credit cards expire. Insurance policies renew. Forms must be completed to confirm that none of the information has changed since the last time I completed the same form. The government periodically asks me to prove that I still exist, usually by supplying a document the government issued to me in the first place.
There is no point at which all the maintenance is complete. You may briefly achieve clean clothes, a full tank of gas, fresh groceries, answered emails, and a functioning refrigerator, but never simultaneously. Fixing one area of your life simply gives another area time to deteriorate quietly.
I now understand that adulthood is not about having everything together. It is about walking from room to room, noticing things that need attention, and deciding which one is most likely to become expensive if ignored. Some days I maintain the house. Some days I maintain the business. Some days I maintain the family. Some days I stand in the kitchen eating cheese directly from the package while waiting for my phone, watch, toothbrush, and emotional stability to recharge.
Honestly, I am doing remarkably well considering I did not receive an owner’s manual and most of my responsibilities seem to regenerate overnight.
Still, everything is mostly functioning, nothing is currently on fire, and I replaced the air filter.
Unfortunately, the light on the refrigerator is blinking now.
🏳️ Charlotte