The Masks of Adulthood

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The essential tragedy of your twenties is that each day you get closer to your thirties.

I turned thirty in July, and I’ve noticed symptoms of the change already. I’ve developed an affinity for farmers markets and an eye for good produce. I’ve started running, a generous term in my case, because I’m now concerned about hidden things like joints, arteries, bones, and ligaments.  I’ve “gone out” about once a month, never had more than two drinks, and still, somehow, have woken up hungover every time. 

But the most bizarre change I’ve noticed has been in interactions with a few old friends. In some cases, they seem unrecognizable, almost made of plastic. They text me in formal paragraphs with proper punctuation. They send me holiday cards over email. They post videos of themselves meal prepping large quantities of cruciferous vegetables. But I still remember the time they got too drunk the night after finals, and I carried them home, and they, even on the verge of unconsciousness, smiled and whispered about all the things that they love — the late night taco stand, the girl they met eight minutes ago, sometimes me. And I can’t help but think, they were more alive then than they are now.

After graduation, most of us joined the corporate world, the place where playfulness goes to die. I remember my summer working as a management consultant in an Atlanta suburb. The office was crowded and lifeless, twelve floors of beige cubicles and clicking keyboards. My work demanded a certain calcified, shrink-wrapped version of myself that seemed to seep into my very being. I remember asking myself: If I stay here for a few years, who will I become?

Professionalism is like method acting. How can you perform for eight hours a day and not bring that character home with you? But it’s not only work. The various identities of adulthood – the breadwinner, the spouse, the parent – all make their individual demands on what we should be and how we should behave. Have you ever heard a friend’s “work voice” for the first time? Or their parenting voice? Or, in some cases, the voice they use with their partner? Sometimes all three are different. And each time, you’re like: who the fuck was that? 

Most of the time, when I see old friends, the identities of adulthood fall away quickly. But sometimes they don’t. They stick. And so there’s a warming up period. We’re together, yet distant, like we’re silently assessing whether we can still relate to one another. I find myself investigating whether the person I once knew is still in there somewhere. I feel the sudden urge to shake them hard or to say something crude, just to see if I can pierce their adult facade and test its defenses. 

Sometimes, in brief, wonderful moments, and usually in the company of alcohol, I am reunited with the friend I once knew. The plastic comes off, slowly at first and then all at once. And I see them smile with their whole face and laugh as I once heard it, and my heart fills with a sudden warmth to know that they are still in there. And in that moment, I know my younger self is still alive in me. 

As I look toward my thirties, I’m reminded of this great gift that friendship offers: it ensures we don’t wander too far from ourselves. And when we do, it brings us back. Each hangout, a homecoming.