Human Evolution

Yesterday as I stepped off the elevator I heard a little girl who couldn't have been more than six or seven years old regaling her parents with tales of all the things she could do when she turned 21. She could drive a car wherever she wanted to go! She could pay for anything she wanted with a credit card! She could wear nail polish every day!

I smiled to myself and exchanged an amused glance with the little girl's parents. We've all lived 21. We know 21.

It's true, with a driver's license and a car you can drive anywhere you want--assuming you can afford the gas and insurance and have time to be racing around town instead of studying for finals, writing a research paper or photocopying documents that your boss will never even look at. You can whip out the plastic and rack up debt that you'll be regretting for the next five years. And you can do it all with perfectly painted fingernails!

I remember the days when I thought 21 was so old. I'd daydream about leaving the concerns of childhood behind. No more school, no more parental rules, no more bossiness from anyone. I'd be able to sing my favorite song and really mean it. It only had one line: "You're not the boss of me, you're not the boss of me." At 21 I'd be an independent woman, earning millions of dollars a year in a job that I couldn't quite picture. I'd have a boyfriend, but not a husband. I didn't want a husband. They seemed to require too much work. I'd be famous, of course, though I wasn't exactly clear on the reasons for my future notoriety. And I'd have a maid. Never again would I make my bed. Ah, the dreams of youth.

By the time I turned 21 I realized that independence wasn't all it was cracked up to be. I was a working student, 2000 miles away from the support and love of my family. I was independent, yes, but it wasn't quite the luxurious paradise I'd been dreaming of all those years ago. Instead of singing "you're not the boss of me," I found myself with more bosses than I knew what to do with. I was student teaching and had to deal with a cranky mentor teacher who didn't seem to like me. I had three supervisors from my university regularly observing my work, I was taking a Spanish class with a professor who believed in total immersion into the foreign language, and I was trying to keep up with a 20-hour-a-week job. At least that boss was easy-going, even if he did have a photocopy fetish.

At 21, I didn't have millions of dollars. I barely had two nickels to rub together. I certainly wasn't famous. Blogs hadn't been invented yet, so I couldn't have even the limited fame attached to airing my dirty laundry over the World Wide Web. I didn't even know what the World Wide Web was. I didn't have a boyfriend, either--the one goal that should have been attainable. I did often wear nail polish. Maybe the little girl on the elevator won't have all her dreams shattered when she hits 21.

A decade has passed since I turned 21. I'm still not famous and I still don't have millions of dollars. I wouldn't even go so far as to call myself independent. I have a husband and he takes care of me, just as I take care of him.

In this past decade I've learned that money and fame aren't necessary in the quest for happiness. I'm not even sure that independence is necessary in the quest for happiness. Instead, I've found that I'm happiest when I am sitting on the couch with my man. I find joy in the simple things in life--putting together a quilt, taking a swim, reading a good book. Money is nice, but who needs gobs of it? At the ripe old age of 31 I've discovered that having a mundane job that doesn't require overtime is much more precious than a flat screen TV. And fame? Who wants it? I prefer a quiet anonymity that lets me live my life exactly how I want it.

Let the little girl in the elevator dream of fast cars and credit cars. I'll dream of a silent telephone, a good meal, and plenty of free time. Maybe I'll even paint my fingernails.