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Nonfiction

Being an Adult at Jiffy Lube

I am getting my oil changed, because I am an adult. This time I am waiting in the car with my windows down as opposed to waiting inside with the free, shitty coffee and box-shaped TV in the ceiling corner playing the local news. BRB as I light one up at this Jiffy Lube. Kidding. Oh, to actually follow through with suggestions from my mother, who sends blurry pictures of mail regarding my candy red 2003 Jeep Liberty I named Aunt Vicki, along with mail regarding my expiring CT license or my family’s ever-changing health insurance. Oh, to be an adult, whatever that means in 2020. 

I didn’t even know how to see the miles on Aunt Vicki; the guy had to show me a button below the speedometer (Is that what it’s called?). But I suppose that’s his job, and I should be grateful to have learned something today. 

I try not to beat myself up over being irresponsible. Or maybe irresponsible isn’t the right word. I try not to beat myself up over not being what I imagine an adult is—someone who does her own taxes, pays her full rent, gets her oil changed without reminders. As much as I feel icky about needing support from my parents, I think it’s something we should be honest about. That Lizette, living the dream in the Bay, the most expensive place in the United States. How does she do it? Answer: privilege. 

And I know I could unpack that more, and maybe I should, but right now the point is that I want to be better. I want to do my own taxes, pay my own rent, have a job with benefits (I haven’t had a check-up in years). And hopefully that will all happen within the next few years. It better happen, even if that means ending my love affair with the Bay. And along the way, there will probably be a lot of beating myself up. I might still wake up to surprise Venmo payments from my mom and be simultaneously relieved and guilty. But today I am getting my oil changed with my own money (and a coupon that Jiffy Lube sent in the mail because their computers know when I am due for an oil change). And when the guy held up a dusty paper accordion (which I guess is an air filter) and asked if I wanted a new one, I said yes. And that is enough for now.

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