Standing in line at the grocery store tonight, I reached into my pocket, pulled out two jagged slips of paper and handed them to the cashier. "I have coupons," I said, somewhat ashamed.
I have coupons.
Lately, I've noticed a lot of these moments, when I call my parents from my kitchen and affirm that yes, I can cook the chicken and the potatoes in the same casserole dish. Other nights, I realize that I've scheduled my day around the laundry cycle, instead of bar closing hours. It's now more important to remove the stains than to jaunt about town, creating them.
Six months ago, I stumbled to class unshaven, unprepared, sometimes dangerously unaware of the world around me. That's changed. Anymore, I can't stay awake past 2 a.m. without regretting it the rest of the week.
I feel older, as if I went to bed a 21-year-old in the prime of his recklessness and awoke wearing a suit and tie, holding a daily planner full of appointments. I don't even dream of flying to work in a helicopter, I catch myself checking out Volvos online.
My always clever father, at 56, likes to remind me that if I'm getting old, what does that make him?
I'm not sure. I know I'm not truly old, in the physical or emotional sense. I think the word I'm grasping at is "tame."
I've been tamed. And I use coupons at the store.
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