Original draft: August 21, 2014
One of my favorite jokes is to compare uncomfortable milestones and/or brief moments of responsibility to adulthood. Examples: “I just turned down a happy hour with coworkers because I didn’t do yoga this morning. IS THIS BEING AN ADULT!?” or “Can we plan our twin weekend around the free Spartan workout in Boston? Yes instead of drinking. I KNOW, IS THIS BEING AN ADULT?!” I’ve even joked about it here before, after the infamous two-glasses-of-wine hangover (ref.). I think growing up, there are these adult stereotypes you create, like you have nothing but free time once you’re out of school, and you can do whatever you want on the weekends. I’m starting to realize, however, that is not even close to the case. In fact, I feel like my new philosophical life question boils down to a simple thought: how does time seriously fill up so quickly?
Back in May, I knew it was going to be a busy summer. I had two major things happening for work in June, traveling throughout July, another two major things for work towards the end of August and then September was a final work announcement, my birthday and my friend’s wedding. In my naive state, I really thought the first few weekends in August would be blissfully uneventful, then a busy two weeks, and then cruising into fall, finally past the major milestones at work and all of the insanity that was the rest of my summer.
Last night, my lovely friend M and I were bumming around her apartment in sweatpants, drinking wine and awaiting Thai takeout, when we started discussing what we want to do this fall. There’s a group trip planned in mid-October for the full Nickname Posse, but we wanted to look into the other weekends for fun activities: Jets/Giants games, Oktoberfest at Bear Mountain, apple/pumpkin picking, an early or late Friendsgiving. We cycled through a few weekends, trading “oh I think R is out of town then” and “No, I have to be back in CT,” and eventually we realized we’re all already booked for the next few months.