Considering the more obvious examples like my age or the fact that I’m searching for post-graduation employment, maybe I should have seen this coming. And yet it came it as a bit of shock yesterday, as I was nailing an Abraham Lincoln poster above my bed and realized: I am becoming an adult person.

For example, I now own a hammer. My clothes are neatly folded in my drawers (some of the time). I have a folder for my tax returns (somewhere in my desk . . . or maybe under it?). I pulled a shard of glass from my foot yesterday with tweezers and didn’t even shed a tear (although I did put a Batman Band-Aid on it).

And, to top it all off, I’ve even begun wearing adult-person sweaters, the kind that are wooly and dark and have turtlenecks and character and ‘dry-clean-only’ tags. (But, in truth, I’ve yet to ever go to the dry cleaner. Baby steps.)

Why am I writing about this? Is it to profess my newfound love for cableknits and home repair? No. See, as I gave it some thought, I realized that most of this has to do with the natural progressions of a coming of age. But some of it has to do with an intentional desire, not really to be an adult, but to be perceived as one, by others and by myself.

For in seeking an image of maturity, my underlying wish was to be taken seriously. And then people would think as I walked by, ‘Oh! Look at that handsome stranger, with her air and manner of walking, and her charcoal cashmere sweater and leather shoes and that hammer in her hand—what an adult person, how versed she seems, she must be mature and wise and thus profound indeed. This is a person I will consider with seriousness and respect and perhaps even a sense of mystical awe.’ (And when I picture them thinking this it’s generally in some sort of British accent. Or maybe French.)

Of course anyone who actually knows me would tell you of a different story, one of a very un-mystical, overgrown child who is still very much in love with magic and make-believe and tomfoolery in the most earnest and innocent sense possible. (And by overgrown, I do refer to my rather imposing five-foot-three-inch stature.)

See, there is such a desire on this campus to have the image and style of maturity, of the cool adult intellectual. Not to have the life of an adult, per se, but the lifestyle—in which we dress up fancy and go to downtown bars and restaurants and clubs and drink scotch and take cabs and read Foucault.

But as I look back at my years here, at the moments I’m most thankful for and that I most cherish, what I find myself reflecting on is neither seriousness nor maturity, but playfulness. Yes, the childlike moments of silliness and kids being kids, like impromptu snowball fights on Low Steps, and singing Disney songs with my roommates in our kitchen late at night.

So, in all seriousness, take some time to be silly. Do it often. Do it always. For in the words of one adult person, “Life is too important to be taken seriously.”

(And, if I may add in saying to our Dear Administration: more puppies please!)
Caroline Blosser is a Senior and Spectrum opinion blogger. She’s majoring in Ancient History and, as such, she’s looking for a job .