The mythical quest for adulthood

I'm trying. I really am. As I'm making new friends in this strange new place, in the hopes that they don't find me odd, I've been confining conversation topics to job talk, relationship banter and pop culture references. Of course when my friends from college came to visit two weeks ago, all of those pent-up fart jokes came pouring out, but after they left I quickly hopped back on the adulthood wagon.

When my sister and brother-in-law (the Jojies and John) came to visit last weekend, I took great strides to appear as grown-up as possible. And even though I wasn't fooling them, it made me feel better to partake in some adult activities. When they picked me up at the office on Friday, I introduced them to my boss (1 point for adult behavior), then we came back home and I cooked a very grown up dinner of pork tenderloin with a pomegranate sauce, a green salad and pasta with butternut squash and zucchini. That's another point right there. I did however make some suggestive gestures with the tenderloin before cooking it. That's minus one point, I suppose, and John please delete that picture from your camera; I think I was a bit drunk. Oops, do I have to deduct another point? Is drunkenness juvenile? This is so complicated.

We went to a wine bar after dinner, which strikes me as incredibly grown up. And then we came home and got into a bed at a reasonable hour. Point! Point! And then at midnight I got a call from the Scooby snacks, and my adult facade disintegrated.

"I'm sorry," he whimpered when I answered the phone. He had been at a party/beer pong tournament. The last thing I said to him before he left was, "be careful" and "don't get sick."

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"I'm sick...oh wait, I have to go." And then he was gone. I got three more calls from him following a similar pattern, the last one culminating in him begging and pleading for me to come pick him up in Oakland. Quite unadult behavior on the part of Scooby Snacks, wouldn't you say? But I had more than a few moments in the car to contemplate this situation. I was somewhat irked as I dragged my ass out of bed and into a pair of sweatpants. By the time I tracked down my keys and walked downstairs to my car I was nearly irate. But as I was driving, I thought about all of the times I had been drunk along with the countless times I had made myself sick from beer, or wine or bourbon. You name it, and it's induced vomming. One particularly bad morning, the Scooby drove me from his place to mine, while I sat in the passenger seat and puked into a black plastic garbage bag. Another time, as I was mid-recovery on a late Saturday afternoon, Scooby ran to McDonalds to pick up a cheeseburger, which I was convinced was the only thing that could save me. He brought me an oreo McFlurry for good measure. Needless to say, it worked.

When I stumbled upon Scoobs standing next to a closed gas station on College Avenue, and he told me all about how he'd thrown up the entire three-block walk from the party he had attended, I did the most grown up thing yet. I took care of him--without even one "I told you so"--and I didn't even hold a grudge.