I’ve recently discovered the “great” experience of adulthood. And, quite frankly, between the rent being due and electricity occupying half of my monthly living allowance, all I can ask is: what is this foolery and who normalised it?
With new-found financial strife, I also have to make my own doctor’s appointments. I remember the feeling of terror when I made my appointment to get vaxxed, all alone. I’m originally from Joburg and recently moved to Makhanda, which means that my mother is 1,000km away. So I did what any sensible millennial would — I called her.
“Hey, mom. I have to take a shot to make sure I don’t die, but I’m too scared to make that call.” Yes, a person who was 1,000km away had to be a bridge of communication between me and a doctor’s office that was right around the corner.
Before you judge me, it’s not that I haven’t tried to make important calls. I have. Once I had to phone the student bureau to discuss my financial requirements for school.
I picked up the phone and a woman with a cheery, kind voice answered. However, all I could do was breathe into the phone while trying to figure out how to say “Hi”. It’s one syllable — a baby could have done more in that moment.
Of course, my social anxiety is not my only issue. In the middle of March, somewhere along my lengthy list of problems, my eyes decided to include themselves on the list and work at 50% capacity. If they weren’t a part of my body, I would have thought they were a political party — you know, the whole incompetence thing.
Personally, I feel it’s a bit mad that I have to pay to see. Who legalised all of this?
But hey, as long as it’s not at my expense, I’ll wear thousands on my face to ensure I don’t get hit by a car (thinking it’s further than it is) because my eyes fall short of the required specifications.
My dad obviously made the appointment at an optometrist that was opposite the complex where I lived. The doctor was quite chatty, which made me anxious (millennials always have anxiety and adulthood is at the top of the list of causes).
Also, adults are always talking. How? Most importantly, why?
Although I smiled and nodded at the optometrist, all I wanted was to get out of there. He asked if I had eye care (I’m sure I did). I replied “yes”, but he asked me if I was certain. Oh boy, at that point I was ready to run with anything that came to mind, but that would spark a chain of questions I knew I could not answer. I decided to do the brave thing and ask for clarification.
“For clarity, when you say eye care insurance, what exactly do you mean?” I hesitantly asked. You could see he was holding back tears, trying not to laugh at me. At that point, I was ready to cry. I asked to be excused and as soon as I was outside, I pulled out my phone (as a millennial, that never fails me).
“Hey, dad. Would you by any chance know if I have eye care insurance and if I do, where is it?” My father was obviously disappointed in the child he had raised.
He replied: “Luyanda, give the medical aid card to the doctor, tell him yes you do have eye care.” Of course, it’s a medical aid benefit. Had the doctor asked me about medical aid, confusion could have been avoided.
Honestly, I’d like to think that I’m smart (well, that’s what my academics tell me). I know about politics, literature, taxes and I am fluent in four languages — and am learning a fifth. But, I am dumbfounded by the everyday inner workings of adulthood.
For example, I haven’t yet figured out how to use my washing machine. The laundromat operator knows me by name now — at least I’m making a name for myself.
Adulthood tries to end my life daily. Last week, I was caught in crossfire on my way back home from Makhanda. I then had to book a shuttle — on my own — to get to the airport.
That experience led to a heated exchange between my mother and the driver. Admittedly, it was my fault. I had assumed the shuttle cost a certain amount of money.
However, long story short, my amount was not correct.
In fact, it was way more than what I had asked my parents to send to me. When I told them this, they assumed the driver was taking advantage of the fact that I was young.
Of course, I didn’t correct my parents. I did not need a heated lecture.
(See, if Makhanda had a Bolt service, this wouldn’t have happened.)
I really do hope that there’s a millennial out there trying to figure out how to make this adulting process illegal.
Until then, I will have to go through my washing machine manual for the 75th time and write a speech for my next doctor’s appointment. How lovely. DM168
This story first appeared in our weekly Daily Maverick 168 newspaper which is available for R25 at Pick n Pay, Exclusive Books and airport bookstores. For your nearest stockist, please click here.
