Baby Steps towards Adulthood

When I traveled outside the US for the first time, my mom packed me every precaution necessary for survival in a third world country. The only hitch was I would be travelling on a meticulously organized teen tour of sixty through the United Kingdom. This context should gently imply that the iodine tablets and malaria vaccine would likely go unwarranted.

The most practical item I had stowed amongst my belongings was likely the credit card that my mother arranged for my use. Not only did it aid in my acquisition of every knick-knack I could set my heart and hands on, but it worked with greater ease than handling loads of foreign currency and teaching a fifteen year old the value of a hard earned pound. I remember the sweet, slick sound as the card glided through a register. The piece of plastic was light to the touch (and to the credit limit) yet I felt the heavy load of responsibility bearing down in my wallet. And its potential for freedom.

After a week of travel, I returned stateside. I was a woman of the world now. I'd had my first alcohol (draft Guinness in a pub in Dublin - yes, that's jealousy you feel!), taken photos with a London guard, and considered my communicating with a British accent an epic advancement of global communication. If that wasn't enough, I'd also used a credit card!! But the European adventure had come to a close and my access to a bank account went along with it. I reluctantly returned magnetic stripe and all of its power to my mother, a woman who meticulously watched our modest finances to ensure that greater problems would never arrive at our doorstep. Moments later, the card was humbled, existing in memory and pieces in a trash can.

Last week, I accepted my fate as an adult of the 21st century. I am twenty one (and three quarters) years old. I am a college graduate and, at least theoretically, function without the financial support of my parents. Granted, I reside in a bedroom that my boyfriend pays for and the money I have been coasting on comes from my petty restaurant earnings, leftover cash from my mother's last deposit into my bank account, returned security deposits, and graduation gifts. So claiming I am a beacon of financial independence for the masses would be weighty overstatement.

With this in mind, I threw caution to the wind and applied for a credit card. And, much to my surprise and chagrin, I was approved for the most elementary of accounts. The account is marketed as a perfect starter account for college students but I believe it's true purpose is to cater towards university imbeciles and post-grad cowards. I lovingly place myself into the latter of these two categories. Yet, with every powerful whoosh emitted from a cash register as my credit card declares that I'll make good on the menial payment, I feel my chest swell up, bit by bit, towards adulthood.