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kneaded out of the same dough but not baked in the same oven."—Yiddish
The clock struck noon. It was a weekday, bright and
shiny. I gently knocked. “It’s late—sweetie, shouldn’t you be getting up?” A
few minutes later, Sweetie staggered out of his childhood bedroom in boxers,
stubble and a Beastie Boys T-shirt cherished since 10th grade. Five months
before, Jed had moved back home after a two-year postcollege spin working at a
San Francisco record label. A few months earlier the plans for my son to open
an East Coast branch of the company had fizzled—not that this development
appeared to have cramped his style. A weekly unemployment check was financing
more late-night eating and drinking than my husband and I had done in the last
“How’s the job hunt?” I asked as he leisurely munched
his bagel and paged through a magazine.
“No, really, how’s it going?”
I realized that You Can’t Go Home Again wasn’t on my son’s English major syllabus.
“What does that mean?”
This time I got the same look I received years before
when I’d heard our son had his first girlfriend. “Who is she?” I’d asked,
stoked with motherly glee.
“I release that information on a need-to-know basis,”
Jed answered, “and you have no need to know.”
As Sweetie sat across from me at the breakfast table, I
realized that You Can’t Go Home Again wasn’t
on my son’s English major syllabus.
All around us, sometimes in our own homes, we see young,
well-educated Americans postponing full maturity and its attendant
responsibilities. The beloved offspring to which I refer is most likely well
over a decade into deodorant, partnered sex, and, depending on gender, tampons
or even Rogaine. He or she is way past having earned the legal right to vote,
defend our country, drive, maintain private medical records, enter into a
contract, marry, smoke, go to jail, and—if he or she has hit twenty-five—rent a car or be elected to Congress. If a parent of such a person tweaks the
hair and clothes, when her loving eyes gaze upon this child she may see some
version of herself or her partner at the same age. This 2.0 reflection may look
down on the reader, literally, from a greater height or have boobs that are a
cup or two bigger—or perhaps it just seems that way, with her décolletage so
often on display. There might be tattoos and tongue studs, but given
Brazilians, landing strips, and manscaping, there’s possibly not much pubic
hair, although the parent prefers not to think about that.
Who are these people sandwiching a chunky stage between
adolescence and adulthood, these individuals who resemble adults but aren’t,
exactly? The Margaret Mead who lurks within every parent can’t help but notice
curious discrepancies between the boy or girl under consideration and the
grown-up we swear we were at the same age. We’ve come to think of “adults” as people
who “settle down.” Adults are financially independent and fiscally solvent,
albeit usually with debt and a mortgage, usually tethered to a steady job or
its reasonable facsimile. Trust fund kids never have seemed very adult,
even—like Brooke Astor’s greedy old baby—when they’re eighty.
An adult isn’t in a state of constant improvisation. An
adult isn’t shackled to his or her mother or father by cell phone or purse
strings or both in a three-legged race toward an undecided destination. An
adult doesn’t crave constant stroking from Mom and Dad.
In the eyes of most real grown-ups, a random five- or
ten-year slice of adulthood does not include going to school, taking a break,
going to school again—possibly again and again—starting a job, starting another
job, moving in with Mom and Dad, traveling here and traveling there, taking out
loans, borrowing from the parents, and imbibing their grandparents’ cocktails
while accumulating credit card debt and purchasing cunning yet quickly replaced
Adults tend not to post their romantic status online,
pulling back the curtains on their private life and publicizing intimate
secrets. They don’t fall in and out of love so many times they need Excel to
track the relationships before they start to serially cohabitate, postponing
and getting fully established at jobs, much less careers. Adults may have
sucked up the fizzy best seller Eat, Pray, Love, but
they don’t see Elizabeth Gilbert, its author, as their north star as they wing
off for extended stays in Italy, India and Indonesia. These young adventurers may
also be unaware that Gilbert followed Eat, Pray, Love with Committed, where
the author defends matrimony in pointillist detail. Adults feel that usually by
the mid-thirties, they need to stop—and here I use the technical term—farting