Kids.

Jim and I, we are Adults.
Grown Ups, really.
Or at least, we are the most Grown Up versions of ourselves we have ever been.

We have a nice (albeit small) home, without the craigslist hand me down aesthetic of our twenties or the fear of not getting our deposit back because the carpets that were once white* are now beige.

*The only proof of this being the virgin carpet 

underneath an area rug in the dining room.

Hey honey, did we leave the oven on?

We favor the better seats at the outdoor concerts as opposed to the cheap ones, and quality over everything else when picking out goat cheese and salami.
We have a housekeeper, and enough cloth napkins and matching serving ware for a large dinner party.
As if, somehow, those are the real testaments to adulthood.
Actually, I'm fairly certain they are.
But then, every once and a while, there is a reminder of how both of us really feel like Kids in Dress Up Clothes.
Fakers!

Most often, it is when Sunday or Monday rolls around, and one of us realizes that the garbage bins had been left out in the back alley since the Tuesday before.

And I find myself thinking,

'Ah, they can't blame us! We're just Kids. Still getting used to Taking Out the Trash All By Ourselves.'

I have to remind myself that we are, for all intents and purposes, not children; rather, we are (forgetful) adults who should really take out the trash on a more regular basis.