I turned 25 this year.
One month and eleven days later. Approximately one year and four months after my arrival in Istanbul, I opened a bank account in my country of (semi)-permanent residence. Walking out of Iş Bank, I held the paperwork for my Euro, Pound and Lira accounts, head high. I felt so adult. I marched elatedly back to work to announce my great feat to colleagues, none of whom were as impressed as I, rather more shocked at how I'd managed to survive without one for so damn long.
The following day, I locked myself out of my flat. As I pulled the door closed behind me, there was a flash to the kitchen counter, where the keys lay in a pool of condensation next to the milk, also left forgotten. It was too late though, as I felt the lock click and my heart sink; with the sting of tears in my eyes I trudged through the swelter to the office, feeling immensely childish and wishing I had a teddy bear to squeeze. Unfortunately, I noted bitterly, he was locked in, and quite useless for key delivery services.
I willingly admit that opening a bank account is not the most adult thing to do. I remember walking into People's Bank in Old Greenwich at the age of 8 or 9 to open my first account. Twenty-five hard earned mother's-helper dollars on my opening statement. A serious discussion with the clerk about my responsibilities as a newly minted People's Banker. A tiny book to document my expenses. All combined to promote in me a sense of accomplishment and progression towards the adult world. The event was commemorated accordingly, with cookies-and-cream-with-sprinkles-on-top-in-a-sugar-cone from next door Baskin Robbins.
I also recognize that most normal people have locked themselves out. Perhaps they did not have to call a locksmith to break into their apartment, as I did. Or get ripped off in the process, as I appear to have been. It was the foolishness of the act, and my reaction. How it made me feel. Not very adult, to scream silent curses at an unrelenting steel door frame. Or to stamp down the stairs in tantrum. Or to punch at my face in the mirror of the lift. Not very adult at all.
So, what's it all about, growing up?
That's what I'm aiming to explore here. I've finished walking about for the time being (with planned escapades here an there), and with truman offering something in the way of inspiration to help define the next phase of my transscribulations, I hope to look at what being an adult really means.
With more to come,
Your not-quite-Grown-up, Kate.
One month and eleven days later. Approximately one year and four months after my arrival in Istanbul, I opened a bank account in my country of (semi)-permanent residence. Walking out of Iş Bank, I held the paperwork for my Euro, Pound and Lira accounts, head high. I felt so adult. I marched elatedly back to work to announce my great feat to colleagues, none of whom were as impressed as I, rather more shocked at how I'd managed to survive without one for so damn long.
The following day, I locked myself out of my flat. As I pulled the door closed behind me, there was a flash to the kitchen counter, where the keys lay in a pool of condensation next to the milk, also left forgotten. It was too late though, as I felt the lock click and my heart sink; with the sting of tears in my eyes I trudged through the swelter to the office, feeling immensely childish and wishing I had a teddy bear to squeeze. Unfortunately, I noted bitterly, he was locked in, and quite useless for key delivery services.
I willingly admit that opening a bank account is not the most adult thing to do. I remember walking into People's Bank in Old Greenwich at the age of 8 or 9 to open my first account. Twenty-five hard earned mother's-helper dollars on my opening statement. A serious discussion with the clerk about my responsibilities as a newly minted People's Banker. A tiny book to document my expenses. All combined to promote in me a sense of accomplishment and progression towards the adult world. The event was commemorated accordingly, with cookies-and-cream-with-sprinkles-on-top-in-a-sugar-cone from next door Baskin Robbins.
I also recognize that most normal people have locked themselves out. Perhaps they did not have to call a locksmith to break into their apartment, as I did. Or get ripped off in the process, as I appear to have been. It was the foolishness of the act, and my reaction. How it made me feel. Not very adult, to scream silent curses at an unrelenting steel door frame. Or to stamp down the stairs in tantrum. Or to punch at my face in the mirror of the lift. Not very adult at all.
So, what's it all about, growing up?
That's what I'm aiming to explore here. I've finished walking about for the time being (with planned escapades here an there), and with truman offering something in the way of inspiration to help define the next phase of my transscribulations, I hope to look at what being an adult really means.
With more to come,
Your not-quite-Grown-up, Kate.
