To Be a Grown-Up

When I was a kid, the adult world was as alien as Mars. Not only was I incapable of living there, I had no desire to. The landscape was inhabited by humanoids who spoke in cryptic language, laughed at the non-sensical, and had access to a secret cache of information allowing them to breathe mature air. They had parties where their beverages were carefully guarded and gleefully consumed. They ate food no kid would ever touch-oily sardines on saltines or the skin of a baked potato. I knew someday I would morph into one of them. But how would I know I had arrived?

I created a mental benchmark based on our family vacations. The wonder of adulthood was displayed on our yearly trips home after a long weekend in Santa Cruz. We’d pile into the car on a Sunday afternoon. My mind replayed the images and moments. Dinner at the Doggie Diner. Walruses bellowing below the pier. Icy saltwater and sand in my shorts. The climb and fall of the Giant Dipper.

At some point, I’d realize we had left Santa Cruz, winding our way through the soft hills back to Atwater. We’d curl around the majesty of the San Luis Reservoir and descend into the labyrinth of rural roads leading back to Atwater. My dad cited numbers and names, roads I supposed, each connected to the other in a serpentine pattern. Before GPS and Waze, he just drove. Inevitably, my eyes would droop.

Suddenly, we’d be in our driveway. My parents would oversee the unloading and hustle us off to bed so they could celebrate the end of another family vacation. A snort they called it, though the glass seemed far too small to quench a thirst.

How did he know when to turn or where Casa de Fruita was located? How long the trip would take? Heck, how did he even stay awake so we didn’t crash? Forget all the other benchmarks of growing up. When I could manage the driving of a family vacation, I decided, I’d be a grown-up.