Adulting alone is fucking hard.

And lonely. But mostly hard.

Hey, fuckers.

I know it’s late on Friday of a holiday weekend, but, whatever. I’m still alive over here. Mostly. It’s just been…a lot in recent months.

New (holy shit) role at The Job. Mom was sick, more than once. I had some moments where the days were mostly about keeping the fucking seams of my sanity stitched together just enough to wake up the next morning and do it all over again. So, hi.

It’s also tax season, which for me every year brings up Adulting in Expert Mode and I fucking hate it. All of it.

I’ve never been married. That’s somewhat by choice and somewhat by circumstance and that story or stories is for sure for another fucking episode that will be fueled by a lot of vodka martinis because that’s when my TMI trigger trips (hi, Christina).

But one of the results of not being married is that you deal with all of the Hard Fucking Adult Things by your own fucking self. Mostly for me those Hard Things are related to money.

I had next to zero financial literacy when I entered adulthood. It’s not that my parents weren’t well intended; I earned a dollar for every one of my dad’s envelopes of canceled checks I put in numerical order after they were returned to him by the bank. I sat next to him when he did the checking account budget book even if I never looked at the pages. But that was about it.

Credit and loans? Taxes? Mortgages? Retirement savings? Insurance? Estate planning? Budgeting? Nothing. Had no clue and not much help. Bought my first house totally on my own, mortgaged to the teeth, at the peak of the 2006 housing bubble. Add on to that the absolute shit show of building, running, and then imploding a business (and all the associated financial nightmares) and we have a recipe for Financial Trauma that has pervaded long into my 40s. I’m still paying down the debt and that says nothing for the emotional scars.

And seriously, what the fuck? This is the time in the mental vision of my Midlife where I was supposed to have all my fucking financial shit together, live in a house with no fucking neighbors, have enough cash in the bank to send my kid to college, and go on vacation occasionally. Maybe retire before I’m 70. That is…not how it all went down.

And professional help is great…if you can find the good ones. Because there are so many fucking bad ones. I’m fortunate to have eventually landed on some amazing lawyers, accountants, mortgage brokers, financial planners and whatever the fuck else thanks to friends and referrals. But WHY THE FUCK are these the people I need to have around me? Why is it not pool boys and polo ponies and fucking personal chefs or at the very fucking least a competent bikini wax person and meat counter guy? I feel like adulthood sold me a complete fucking bill of goods and instead of The Unmarried Cougar Life being filled with lots of booze and emotional-consequence-free dick and beach vacations, I have one filled with pivot tables and being on a first-name basis with IRS officers.

And don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I’m not grateful. I have my proper fucking Gratitude Journal like a decent suburban non-housewife has. It even has fucking flowers on the cover. I write with different colored pens I get from Japan. And I AM FUCKING GRATEFUL. I am. I don’t have to worry about putting food on the table or gas in my car. And if my house burned down tomorrow my friends and family would put a roof over my head. By all accounts, I am *ridiculously* fortunate.

But I think I never quite banked on doing this part of life by myself, responsible for an amazing teenager, wondering if I’m seriously fucking it all up at every step (and knowing at times that I absolutely have).

So today I paid my vomit-inducing tax bill thanks to Gerry the Accountant who took me from tears to at least mutually feeling and lamenting the unsatisfying ass stuffing that the IRS gave me this year. I finished the living will and the powers of attorney and the updates to my other will documents because this week reminded me how important that shit is if I get hit by a bus next week. I threw some more money at the never-ending Debt Pile in hopes that it has an end sometime in my lifetime.

And then I poured a fucking martini. Because fuck, this stuff is overwhelming and scary and hard and can someone fucking explain to me why anyone would do anything related to money or finances or spreadsheets for a living? It’s like shoving splinters under your fingernails over and over again except at least that has an upside if pain turns you on. Dunno, maybe spreadsheets do that for you too. You do you.

Anyway, I don’t have a massive point other than saying that if you’re out there thinking that everyone else Has Their Shit Together financially, that money is only intimidating to you, that you’re somehow falling short because the very idea of navigating dollar signs makes you want to barf…you aren’t alone.

And then we add to it that it isn’t cool to talk about money or finances or salaries so we all just sit uncomfortably over our salads at lunch when we really want a cheeseburger and pretend that it’s fine, thanks, and gosh it’s really been too long, Orange Theory was so hard today, how was the family reunion and did you see that fucking insane post on Nextdoor?

Then it’s doubly, triply tough if you’re doing it without a partner because who the fuck is going to pour you the martini with extra olives after you do The Hard Things?

Sigh.

I also have so much to tell you guys about from the last several months so I’ll try to put that in episodes for the next few weeks. Thank you for still being here even though I’ve not been. One thing that’s a constant if you love a writer is that you have to love them even when they’re not writing the writing.

Okay, I made that rule up but I’m hoping you fuckers are on board. You’ve been so far.

I’ve missed you. Here’s to adulting, even when it’s hard as fuck.

With love and angst,

Amber

PS - That comic is from @EffinBirds and if you haven’t discovered Aaron and his amazingness yet, well, you’re missing out entirely. Fix that pronto. I have several mugs from the merch store. And no he’s not paying me, I just like cool and funny people.