...in circulation...

One of my students asked me this week if I was a real grownup. "As opposed to a fake grownup, Jesse"?, I said back. After a short debate, his second grade brilliance deciphered that in fact, I am not a real grownup because I don't have a house, a car, or a husband. Well maybe I don't have any of those things, and maybe I don't do my own laundry, or grocery shopping, or remember to water my tree. But I don't think these things are the true measure - you have to consider the many ways in which I am, inexorably, adult:

- $2200 in savings since Christmas
- a Louis Vuitton purse [comprising both adultness and Persianness]
- seeing from a distance my ex-boyfriend, realizing I'm still not over him, wincing, turning, resigning, and walking on.