Whether you’re a Boomer, a Millennial, or a still-reluctant Xer who’s not yet read the memo because you don’t understand how to download attachments on your phone, Jeneration X is your invitation to join me because it’s never too late.
I know it sounds hard, but fear not: I’ve done the legwork for you! Each chapter in this book illustrates a painful lesson I learned about becoming more of an adult, so I hope you’ll find this guide useful.
Although this book will help you navigate the treacherous waters of many aspects of reluctant adulthood, if I leave you with no piece of wisdom but this, please understand that at a certain age your body can no longer efficiently process all the artificial colors in a dinner-sized serving of Froot Loops, regardless of how delicious they may be. [Particularly with a dash of half-and-half.]
And you won’t realize this until it’s already too late.
Far, far too late.
Unless you have a particular affinity for crying on the toilet, you may just want to trust me on this one.
Best,
Jen Lancaster
C·H·A·P·T·E·R O·N·E
Involuntarily Voluntary
I’ll often yell at homeless people. “Hey, how’s that homelessness working out for you? Try not being homeless for once!”
Okay, fine.
I’ve never actually said this. Coach Sue Sylvester on Glee did. But considering the first line in my memoir Bitter Is the New Black reads, “Camille said you stole a bag from a homeless guy,” imagining my saying this isn’t such a stretch.
Having come within five days of losing my apartment and moving back with my parents not so long ago, you’d think I’d be a little less glib about other people’s circumstances.
You’d be wrong.
The thing is, my life is good right now… I suspect a little too good.
I fear that I’m starting to forget what it felt like to struggle. My memories of the bad old days when the bank took our car and ComEd disconnected our electricity are fading and sepia-toned. So when Coach Sylvester offered her suggestion, I found myself nodding in agreement. Why don’t they try not being homeless for once? You know, get a job and such. How hard could it be, right?[Plus, there’s probably some cake somewhere. Let them eat that.]
Success has paved the way for me to revisit some old, bad habits. I’m concerned that my confidence is quietly morphing back into arrogance and my hard-won humility is turning to hubris. More often than not, snotty has once again become the new black. My tolerance is nil and last week while shouting at the valet I’d deemed incompetent, I realized how dangerously close I was to asking him if he knew who I was.
This is not good.
Instead of asking someone if they know who I am, I should be asking myself who it is I want to be.
The last time I behaved in such a childish, petulant manner, Karma knocked me out of my penthouse and onto my ass. Although I learned to appreciate those lessons in retrospect, at the time, life sucked. And I’d like to never live through anything like that again.
Thankfully I finally have the ability to take one giant step back from myself and right my terrible attitude before my life tumbles like so many houses of cards again.
I need to give back the good I’ve been so selfishly taking in.
I need to repay the karmic debt I’ve incurred.
I need to actually grow up instead of just saying it.
And now my job is to figure out how.
You know who volunteers?
Grown-ups.
Also, people sentenced with community service after a DUI.
But mostly grown-ups.
Doing charitable work seems like it would be soup and sandwich to my desire to give back as well as my need to mature, so I’m looking into it. The only volunteer work I’ve done previously was with shelter dogs and I really enjoyed it, but it turns out I’m a “take work home with me” kind of gal. As my husband, Fletch, and I live with a pit bull, a German shepherd, and five cats, we are at capacity in the stray pet department. Until we lose some members to attrition, I should stick to groups of creatures I don’t want to bring home. Like children and the homeless.
I sign up on a couple of Chicago volunteer databases, so I figure finding projects should be a snap. I mean, I’m smart,[Relatively.] I have skills to offer,[Limited.] I’m willing and able,[In theory.] so surely there’s some stuff out there at which I’d excel. Or, barring that, at least wouldn’t hate. I log in to the first calendar and begin to peruse volunteer listings. I’m free all week, so let’s see what’s available.
Okay, here’s something for Girls on the Run… well, now that sounds vaguely fun in a frenetic kind of way. Zippy and upbeat and useful. I wonder what they do? Maybe this is a charity that helps women balance their busy schedules? Or it provides gals on the go with some kind of relaxing downtime? If that’s the case, I bet my friend Angie could benefit. In the summer her minivan turns into a Mobile Command Unit and she stuffs it full of uniforms and pads and equipment before she shuttles four stinky boys to various sporting practices, camps, and workshops, all day, every day.
Angie’s always throwing out her back because she’s perpetually perching on steel risers cheering on her fourth track meet of the week, or hauling coolers full of enough gluten-free, dairy-free, sugar-free, tree nut–free snacks for the whole team.[Did you know that peanut butter’s now considered a hate crime? Because it totally is.] On away game and tournament days, she’s on the road from six a.m. until ten p.m., fueled by nothing but a bucket of coffee and a handful of back pills. How cool would it be if Girls on the Run could come out and, like, bring her some sangria or give her a quick shoulder massage? I’d definitely work to support those efforts.
I click over to the charity’s Web site and
