I looked in the mirror this morning and saw a man with gray hair and a serious face. He looked responsible. He looked like a man who pays taxes on time. I laughed at him. Because inside this 50-something-year-old body, there is a 7-year-old boy piloting the machine. And honestly? He has absolutely no idea what he is doing.

They told us that when we grow up, we will feel “different.” They lied. The only difference between me now and me at age 7 is that now I have a credit card, a driver’s license, and lower back pain that predicts the weather.

When something breaks in my house, or there is a weird noise in the car, my first instinct is still to look for an adult. I panic and look around for someone in charge. Then I realize with horror: I am the adult. I am the one who has to fix it. This is a terrible system. Who put me in charge? I really need to speak to the manager of life.

I try to act mature in other ways, too. I tell people I love salad. This is a lie. If there were no consequences, I would eat pizza and ice cream for every meal until I exploded. I only eat broccoli because my doctor used big scary words like “cholesterol” and “blood pressure.” Eating healthy isn’t a choice; it is a hostage situation.

I have also become a hypocrite. When I was a kid, I hated when my parents said, “Because I said so.” I thought it was unfair. Now? It is my favorite phrase. It saves time. It ends debates. It is magic. Why do we have to leave the party early? Because I said so. Why are we watching this movie? Because I said so. It is the ultimate power move.

My wife thinks I am messy, but I disagree. I am an architect. I have built a magnificent tower of clothes on the chair in the bedroom. It is a complex system of “Clean,” “Dirty,” and “I wore this for 20 minutes so it’s basically fine.” Putting clothes on a hanger takes 10 seconds. I don’t have that kind of time. That chair isn’t furniture. It’s a lifestyle.

And don’t get me started on bravery. I act tough, but if I turn off the basement lights, I still run up the stairs on all fours like a demon is chasing me. And if my foot hangs off the edge of the bed, a monster is going to grab it. That is just science.

I even fake my voice. If you hear me talking to my friends, I sound like a normal, loud guy. But if the bank calls? Suddenly I sound like a British professor. “Yes, indeed, quite right.” I am faking it. I’m trying to sound like I own stocks. I don’t even own peace.

The biggest sign that I’m still a kid is how I feel about sleep. When I was 7, nap time was a punishment. I fought it. I screamed. Now? If you told me to go to my room and lie down for two hours, I would cry tears of joy. I would hug you. Napping is the most expensive luxury in the world, and I want it more than gold.

Sometimes I miss the kid. Sometimes I am the kid.

So, am I a grown-up? Technically, yes. The government lets me drive a car and vote. But emotionally? I am just a kid who learned how to shave. We are all just winging it. We put on our serious adult costumes every morning, drink our coffee (which is just bitter bean water that makes us fast), and pretend we know the answers.

That man in the mirror looks responsible. I hope he never finds out it’s me.

But deep down, we are all just waiting for someone to tell us it’s nap time.