You probably know an accidental adult. He's the guy -- it's almost always a guy -- who is perplexed by people who give tools as gifts. He's the guy who glides on the grocery cart like a scooter, mortifying his kids. He's the guy who regards athletic pursuits as goofy fun, instead of as competitive benchmarks of personal worth.
You may even be that guy.
It's not that accidental adults have never grown up; it's that they refuse to accept that adulthood means taking everything so seriously. Home maintenance, office politics, the virtues of pinot noir -- leave all that to those whom Colin Sokolowski calls "assimilated grown-ups," or people who "understand the proper ratio of comprehensive vs. collision on their auto insurance."
Still, at 40, Sokolowski has done kind of a grown-up thing: He's written a book, although it is nonfiction and has only 12 chapters. "The Accidental Adult: Essays and Advice for the Reluctantly Responsible and Marginally Mature" (Adams Media, $12.95) is about those people (cough, guys) whose age connotes adulthood but whose behavior still leaves fully evolved adults shaking their heads.
"It's OK that there are other people who do certain things well," said Sokolowski, an affable father of three from Vadnais Heights, Minn. "Yeah, I forget from season to season which oil goes in the lawn mower and which goes in the snow blower. But I don't beat myself up over that."
The implication is that real adults care deeply about remembering proper oil weights. Perhaps they do. What, then, happened to Sokolowski and his ilk? He's not sure, but he floats the theory that Gen Xers such as himself have watched as baby boomers' loyalty to their companies, once a two-way street, has become a dead end.
"We saw that it's about the skills you have in your toolbox, and you'll take that from job to job to job," said Sokolowski, who works in public relations for a suburban school district. "It creates a sense of detachment that may carry over into not embracing responsibilities."
For example, at a recent annual guys' weekend ("called Sausagefest, of course"), he was confident that no one would ever toss him the keys to the motorboat, "because they know I'm not that guy. My dad always drove the boat and, if not him, then my older brother. I'm the 'Throw me another light beer; you've got it' guy.
"Maybe that's a metaphor for my life: I'm totally comfortable in many situations with letting other people drive the boat."
Yet Sokolowski stressed that accidental adults like himself don't dodge responsibility. "It's cool to vote. You need to register for the draft. Show up for jury duty. Volunteer when you can." Accidental adulthood is more of an interior monologue that you have while role-playing your way through life -- with "moron" being a consistent, however silent, refrain.
The book itself was accidental, emerging when Sokolowski began writing a series of essays. The theme of reluctant adulthood was fueled by recollections of being a grad-school teacher to students who were not much younger than himself, yet who regarded him as "Mr. Sokolowski."
No question that the Mr./Ma'am thing is a rough transition. But isn't it possible that lots of seemingly assimilated adults also, deep inside, feel like accidental grown-ups? Possibly, he said, except that he's witnessed the actual transition to adulthood on the golf course.
"It's not fun to be the guy the good golfers are shushing," he said. "I'm like, 'When did you start caring?' And they're saying, 'You're not so much fun anymore, making "Caddyshack" jokes while we're trying to par this hole.' "
Solokowski said he hasn't lost friends over such issues, just some invitations to play golf. But remember: He's not beating himself up over this.
Still, it's tempting to ponder whether such "What, me worry?" equanimity has implications in a world where competitive advantages count. Not to worry, Sokolowski said. "Let's be clear that accidental adults are in the minority."
You're sure about that?
"Yeah," he said. "Not unless everybody is walking around with a brave face, but silently calling everyone else 'Moron.' "
So -- who's going to tell him?