bitter realization

I spent most of yesterday afternoon sitting in the cart on a manicured golf course in Connecticut. My mind preoccupied with the wherabouts of two bacon turkey wraps with french fries. Pollen visibly circled past us and taunted my sinuses. It wasn't a weekend in the Hamptons, but it was relaxing. A few things I wasn't missing. Young mommies in white, au pair's in tow, lazily/busily discussing plans and engagements and organizing pre-packaged meals. Political conversations (I should obviously be actively concerned with) over dinner. Business, work, summer camp, Ivy League schools, second homes, children, third homes, weddings, life, death, people I don't know. This is serious business. It must be discussed as frequently as possible. This doesn't seem all that abnormal, does it?

So why do I cringe when I hear these conversations? Why am I screaming inside for a mental/physical escape? I reached back in my memory for conversations from the pre-job era. Why don't I remember these topics? What the hell did I talk about? Grades, summer vacatation, part-time jobs, job hunting, boyfriends, graduation.

And then it occured to me. These are adult conversations. This is expected of me. I'm an adult and I'm hanging around with adults. What day did I grow up? I need to accept this and move on. There's such a huge part of me that still wants to sit at the kids table and talk about kid shit. The grown-up table is so boring.

I am so immature, it kills me.