Being a grownup is lame

I'm pretty sure I've completed whatever step it is we're on now (five?  I forget), but I'm not sure how I feel about it.

Today, I wrote my mom an entire email (with a grin plastered across my face as I tap-tap-tapped on the keyboard) about how supremely happy I am with the changes in my car insurance.  I felt a swelling of joy at what a great deal I'd gotten on fantastic coverage for our vehicles.  

It was akin to the feeling I once got when I bought a pair of adorable, strappy Calvin Klein stilettos (that I've worn exactly two times) for about $60 cheaper than a friend of mine.  We fell in love with them on the same day (in different colors), but I waited a couple of weeks to buy them (and they still cost more than you should spend on shoes you wear twice in 7 years) and so got them on clearance. 

So, basically,  all the energy I used to spend shopping for bargains on cute shoes, I now spend haggling with insurance agents.  

So, I'm calling this another step toward becoming a grownup, but I'm starting to wonder why it is I even want to be a grownup.  Turns out it's making me really boring.   

Maybe I should dye my hair purple again to shake things up.