You Take the Kids, I'm Keeping the KitchenAid

There exist, in my silly little head, a number of items whose possession grants the owner a certain level of grown-up-ness. I’m not talking about conventional things that one acquires through time like children or wisdom or a 401K. No, this list includes obscure things that symbolize maturity as I imagine it. A lack of Ikea furniture in one’s apartment, for example, or one of my personal favorites: matching bra and panties sets. (Really, isn’t there something deliciously sexy yet old-fashioned about coordinating undergarments?) Then there’s the car with a bike rack on top, which I touched on yesterday, as the penultimate pinnacle of adulthood. Double points for two bikes on top, his and hers.

But the be-all, end-all item, my ultimate metonymy of maturity is: The KitchenAid Stand Mixer (Red).

Sure, I could go out and buy one on my way home from work today. They’re pricey, but it wouldn’t break the bank. But I won’t. I’m not ready yet.

The very first thing I will do when (if?) I get engaged is register for a red KitchenAid Stand Mixer. Okay, maybe the second thing, after calling MomOh of course. Anyway. Forget crystal and linens, I don’t care about china patterns or flatware; just point me in the direction of the appliances, please. Getting a KitchenAid Stand Mixer might be the only good, solid reason for a girl to get married these days after all, what with increasing divorce rates and the preponderance of prenups. You take the kids, I’m keeping the KitchenAid.

I’m not sure I can tangibly explain why the KitchenAid Stand Mixer symbolizes adulthood to me. It’s big, it’s heavy, and for those reasons owning one represents a level of permanence and excess of kitchen counter space. Or chalk it up to my childhood: I watched my mother use hers hundreds of times to bake my father’s chocolate chip cookies or my angel food birthday cakes. And, well, it’s shiny and pretty and despite my New York Times-defined ability to eat and drink like a dude, deep down I am secretly a total girlie-girl.

It's true! My parents' attic is a repository of my childhood doll collections and boxes of exclusively pink clothing! And I like makeup (just not wearing it) and hair styling (just not my own)! Right. Well, as my friend KW once wisely noted, I have a mushy girlie side – you just have to lure it out with tequila shots.