…and how many months behind are you on your maturity?

So I got a job. A pretty decent job, too. I mean, it’s a desk job in an office and I have to wear pants and the like, but you know, it’s not too bad. Of course I can’t tell you what the job is, since I’m dealing with some rather sensitive personal and financial information and I really don’t want to be fired in my first month. Really.

But suffice to say, it has brought up a rather touchy topic for me. Namely, my maturity level. The fact that I really don’t always have one is well known among family and close internet friends. I’m goofy and quirky, and depend on Mom and Matt for pretty much everything from food to tuition to my ever increasing cell phone bill. I’ve been looking for a job for over a year so that I can take care of at least some of my financial responsibilities, but hey, the economy, what are you gonna do. Also, my predominantly art and school centric resume doesn’t make me the most employable candidate. Interesting, certainly, but not employable.

Understandably, I’ve developed a bit of a complex about being good enough to work. And this complex plays on complexes and neuroses from my childhood.

I’ve always been one of those kids who was – not necessarily the girl with the highest grades, but – one of the smartest kids in the class. And for whatever reason my subconscious has invented, I’ve always felt that I’m somehow behind everyone else. That I’m smart enough to notice the gap between myself and my peers and life experience, but so socially inept that I can’t see where the difference is. And so, I mentally and emotionally stagnate somewhere between the ages of 16 and 19. Of course, because I’m a smart little cookie and I know all about my tendency to be a bit nuts in the unhelpful way, I’ve been kicking my own ass for the past year or two, determined to not be 30 and absolutely clueless.

As a result, I’ve been getting better at not being permanently developmentally arrested. Thank Ceiling Cat. I landed a job with the help of a friend, and I’ve got a professional wardrobe to match. Suit pants,  blouses, inoffensive shoes, the whole shebang. I also bought a purse, some notebooks for note taking, and some hair pins to keep my curls out of my face. I look like I’m 22 and am not majoring in art history or have ever had any artistic inkling at all. Well, since I repainted my nails sea green, that part’s not exactly true anymore. And as I told Twitter yesterday:


Maria D'Isidoro
Maria_DisidoroMaria D’Isidoro

In yet another staggering step towards maturity and all that that noise entails, I’ve set up a savings account with overdraft protection.
Maria D'Isidoro
Maria_DisidoroMaria D’Isidoro

Next week, I have to apply for a credit card and start building a line of credit. What is happening here?
Maria D'Isidoro
Maria_DisidoroMaria D’Isidoro

Oh, and after THAT I need to call that insurence rep and get my moving retirement fund started. Because I’M not relying on social security.
As Emma aptly responded:
@Maria_Disidoro You’re scaring me. It’s like you’re actually your age or something.
Thankfully, I’ve circumvented this process at least a little by purchasing a Cookie Monster wallet.
Yeah, that’s right. Cookie Monster is guarding my spare change and student ID.
At least I can afford my art supplies this year.
Maria Out!

About Morgan Maria D'Isidoro

Morgan Maria D'Isidoro has lived in Baltimore, MD for most of her life, saving a handful of failed escape attempts. Given the murder rates, she'll probably die here too. Morgan is a writer of speculative fiction and poetry, a musician of dubious quality, cat aficionado, art history fangirl, kitchen sorceress, recovering pyromaniac, accomplished liar, and an all around person of questionable employability.
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