I don't know what it is that makes you become an adult.

Is it something in the water? Is it that first trip to the furniture store to buy a bookcase more permanent than cinderblocks and 2-by-4s? Is it flossing?

What pushes us to invest in sweater sets and ties when sweat pants and slippers are more comfortable? Do I have to give up snowball fights and kicking dandelions to get there?

When I see my friends who have graduated come back to visit, they're different. Not just because they have spending money or a place to live without holes in the walls, but they talk about insurance and 401k plans.

I admit to having thought about investments and retirement, but only after reading an article explaining how to turn $100 now into $1 million in 30 years. I don't spend my days worrying about health insurance. I watch Unsolved Mysteries and The Golden Girls and eat Ben & Jerry's in the afternoon.

Maybe it's the grown-up wardrobe. My winter hat with earflaps and braids that tie under the chin doesn't match the formality of a suit and heels. My burgundy Pumas aren't exactly business casual.

I don't eat like an adult. I sometimes make vegetables, but ice cream out of the bucket is so much easier. EasyMac is a little too unnaturally colored for a formal dinner table. Subway may be the closest I get to a balanced meal.

I still watch kid television. Not just stuff on Cartoon Network, but Disney movies and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

I procrastinated while writing this column to watch Anastasia. Iago and Abu crack me up, and I still have three-quarters of Aladdin memorized. Those three weeks when I made my parents call me Ariel don't seem that long ago.

My arts and crafts have moved past crayons, but I still love Play-Doh. I flooded the stove with papier-mâché to make party decorations. I even got the, "Wow, those are ... nice ..." a few times. Martha Stewart is over my head.

Sheets cover empty boxes and a plastic cooler in my apartment so it looks like I have end tables. They're not even from the same set. I walk in and kick off my shoes, hitting them against the wall to score in the crate by the door. I plop, I don't sit. I can't keep anything alive in the flowerpot and I never do the dishes unless the sink is overflowing.

When my parents found out I had enough credits to graduate a semester early, they said I was welcome to pay for a semester of ballroom dance and photography. I cried and pleaded, begged and cajoled, wheedled and bribed. But here I am with nine days to figure out how to become a responsible adult.

Nine days to get a new wardrobe, fill my cupboards with adult food, buy expensive wine and a place to store it, a grown-up winter hat and real end tables.

Once I invest in a retirement fund, will that be it? Am I an adult? It should be pretty easy then, to take down the Penn State flags and pack up my pictures of State College.

So why doesn't it feel that way? The bad news is that adulthood is coming whether I want it or not. I noticed my first "laugh lines" in the mirror last week, and it is only a matter of time until I have undeniable wrinkles.

That piece of paper on the wall signifies an end to one part of my life. Let's just hope it's not the end of snowball fights and nap time.

I guess I'll see my fellow graduates at the furniture store.