Adults don’t have Youk posters on their mirrors.
I am 26-years-old. That’s adult, right? It’s more than adult on paper. It’s practically thirty, really, and thirty-year-olds should have adult dwellings, yes?
I have an adult job, adult car payments and now an adult house.
Why then, does it look like a teenager lives there?
It could be the occasional stuffed animal. Or… and this is a big or, it could be the incessant Sox paraphernalia. Seriously, it’s in danger of looking like a college dorm room. It’s bad. And yet, I can’t bring myself to get rid of any of it, even (especially) the pink stuff.
Joel offered some advice while carrying couches for me Saturday- “confine the Sox stuff to the bedroom.”
Clippings, old Sox calendar pages with images of Yaz, of Williams… and the Youk. All the Youk paraphernalia. And the hats… the hats. Add that to my adult furniture, my antique secretary with the glass windows… and it looks like Jimmy Fallon took over his grandma’s bedroom.
Whether I confine it to one room or just scatter it like Green Monster vomit all over my house, it’s excessive. And I’m painfully aware of it.
I’m 26-years-old, I tell myself. An adult.
How does one compromise fanhood with style? Because when you walk into my house, I really don’t want you to think a seventeen-year-old lives here. My face and pigtails make my age difficult enough to buy… I get carded at movies, after all… don’t card me in my own house…