Maturity? Oh hello, nice to meet you.
I recently saw someone at the gym that I hadn’t seen in a while, probably not since my senior year of high school. He looked okay. He seemed healthy, a bit chubby. And as many chubbies do, he decided to wear a very tight Under Armour workout shirt just to let everyone know he’s comfortable with the fact that his body proudly flaunts an above average nipple to breast ratio, a quality respectable among all species.
Anyway, he went to a decent state college and now makes his money in part-time construction work/occasionally attending random focus groups in Manhattan. Most recently, he participated in a market research study for the brand “Sheets,” a dissolvable strip that provides fast-acting energy, in which he agreed that a poster of Pitbull placing the product on his tongue surrounded by hundreds of screaming fans with the caption, “They love when I take a Sheet right on stage” would really resonate with the general public. He was paid $150 for 4 hours of his valuable feedback. What a steal.
After briefly catching up, he reached his hand out, firmly shook mine and said, “Take care, Jay.” It made me want to simultaneously slap him in both of his perfect little titties as I step back and watch them rotate synchronously in the cutest little hula hoop motions. That’s seriously how flustered I was.
It bothered me because it was a very mature thing to say and it was something I’ve literally never said to anyone before. I’ve worked at two law firms this summer, I’ve spoken to people who were calling from jail and, upon agreeing to offer legal services to them, the only farewells I was able to naturally produce were “Be safe” and “Have a good one.”
I don’t think there is a more appropriate time to say “Take care,” but I didn’t. And here’s this asshole at the gym telling me to “Take care, Jay.” Are you out of your mind? Bro, dap me up and say something honest like “Keep in touch, man” or “Good seeing you” or even “Go f*ck yourself.”
But then I thought, maybe I’m supposed to be mature like him. Here’s this kid who walked out of the shitty Midtown corporate office thinking he had just changed the face of modern advertising. Maybe he was actually more mature then I was.
I always saw maturity as more of a physical thing. If my girlfriend yelled at me for continuously making jokes at her expense and called me immature, I’d simply lift up my arm and point at my abundance of silky armpit hair and say “Lol, actually you’re wrong.” In retrospect, maybe that alone says enough.
Is maturity gradual or does it just kind of happen? Because if it’s gradual, that’s going to be a huuuuuge issue down the road. Like, am I supposed to all of a sudden not giggle when someone says “penis”? Is maturity something you need to practice? You know, like stand in the mirror in a suit and say things like “I love you” and “You are the most important person in my life” and “You can have the other half of my burrito, I don’t mind.” Because that seems crazy, lol. Perhaps how you communicate on dating apps is a good indication of your level of maturity? Maybe I shouldn’t just dive right in to the story of my first hand job experience?
Me: It was a pretty dry experience for the first couple minutes
Me: She wasn’t really sliding she was squeezing
Me: It was in my friend’s parent’s bathroom
Me: So I called timeout and pumped some Nivea moisturizing lotion in her hand and she got back to work
Me: It was lovely omg
Me: lil stingy in the peephole so my post handjob comedown was pretty depressing
Me: but def closest I ever came to falling in love
Me: God, I miss you Bridgette
Janet: You should have used fragrance free lotion, no burn.
Maybe, instead, I should start with “Hey!” or “Hello, how are you?”
But I just don’t think I’m quite ready.