On Thursday night, I walked in the door to my apartment a little before eleven o’clock. I went to my room, dumped my bag onto the floor and wandered into the kitchen to check the mail and retrieve a pint of cookie dough ice cream from the freezer. It was an impulse buy at the grocery store a few weeks before and I suppose it goes without saying that I’m usually not an ice cream for dessert kind of gal since it was sitting in my freezer for THREE WEEKS.

I am putting my mother and her sugar addiction to shame.

I grabbed a spoon out of the drawer and stood there in the kitchen for a few seconds mulling over my choices. I could take the ice cream to the couch and put on the television. I could sit down at the table and eat it while reading a novel. None of those options seemed ideal though and it was only then that I realized, standing there in my gray Converse sneakers in my kitchen, that I could take that ice cream and eat it wherever the heck I wanted to.

And that is how it came to be that I kicked my sneakers off, climbed into my big girl bed, propped myself up against a few pillows and sat there spooning cookie dough ice cream into my mouth with a ridiculous grin on my face.

Because, you guys?

My little Laura self, at ages five and seven and eleven and whenever, had dreamed of what being a grown up would be like throughout her whole childhood. It meant staying up late to watch the end of TGIF, all the way to 10 pm. It meant paying for things with my own dollars! Taking those dollars and buying tons and tons of troll dolls and sticker books and original Broadway cast recordings! And most of all, being a grown up meant eating anything I wanted, doing anything I wanted, going wherever I wanted, ANY OLD TIME.

And so I sat there.

In my bed.

With my pint of ice cream.

And I felt like I had arrived.

I feel like too often I forget that being a grown up can be fun. There are too many moments (and therefore blog posts) full of heartbreak and sickness and parking tickets and getting laid off and that time I flew off the treadmill at the gym and everyone stared.

So. I just want to document this. THIS TIME! This ONE TIME! Where I ate ice cream IN MY BED! JUST BECAUSE! And nobody stopped me!

When I mentioned this to my sister, she asked me what else I was doing at the time. Watching TV? Reading? Talking on the phone?

Um, no, I answered, suddenly self-conscious. I was just sitting there eating ice cream. Probably just grinning at the wall.

It was enough, in that moment, to relish in my own adulthood and not do anything else at all.

Because it’s hard, you know?

To feel in control of your life.

To feel like you make the right choices.

To choose love instead of fear.

To feel confident in your abilities and your talents and the path that you’re on.

To be kind to yourself.

And in a place like New York City, it’s far too easy to get thrown about and beaten down and made to feel less than.

In reality, I am a decent person. A great one, in fact.

I am capable of buying my own Converse sneakers in the color I like the best. I can blast a song with dirty words in it and have a dance party with my roommates. I can walk around without any pants on because I AM AN ADULT, YOU KNOW?

I don’t have to put pants on.

If I don’t feel like it.

And whenever I want, I can bust out some cookie dough ice cream and I can hunker down under the covers and I can whisper to the little Laura of long ago that yes, actually, sometimes?

Being an adult is all that you dreamed it would be.