Feeling a little grown-up

What does it mean to be a grown-up?  I've often asked this question as I look around the townhouse I bought almost three years ago, and I come to the same mind-jarring conclusion; I'm responsible for this shit.  Being a homeowner means getting calls that workmen accidentally broke your basement window and you may just have to fix that leaky toilet yourself (not hypothetical situations, btw).

Bottom-line, I absolutely love my home and I do like taking care of it.  People comment that it is full of my personality and warmth.  I agree.  There isn't much room for someone else's stuff... which is a whole other post I could get into later.  I like making coffee in the morning, opening the blinds and reading the paper.  Last week, however, I was bemoaning my sad sofa a bit.  I've had three sofas in the last fifteen years; a foam loveseat that weighed about ten pounds (college days); a curved, powder-blue loveseat that I got at a flea market for $25 (first on-my-own apartment), and a pull-out hand-me-down from relatives (somewhere for company to sleep).  It was that last one, the battered, cat-clawed, slipcovered sleeper that I kinda lamented.  It saw me through some good and bad times, and sometimes that stuff is hard to part with, but it's just part of the larger story.  Move along, little sofa, have a nice life in someone else's house.  The promise of a nicer, slightly used sofa set was too much to pass up.  And I got a lot of furniture for a bargain.

Do I qualify for adulthood now?  Maybe, but I still need to make room for someone else. :-)