Surely I can't be an adult

I've come to the conclusion that I'm not an adult. It's just not possible. Despite not growing up in an idyllic home, I have certain ideas about what I consider a 'proper' adult to be. Below is my list of why I can not be an adult.

1. I do not have matching bathroom towels. None of them. They don't match each other, and they certainly do not match my bathroom.

2. I do not eat nearly enough vegetables. Unless potatoes count. I mean technically they do, but not really.  I will eat them in fried, mashed, roasted, chipped (heh) and baked. But the leafy greens? While I do love salads, I haven't been feeling them lately.

3. I don't iron. Even when I wore 'dressy' clothes to work, I didn't iron. On occasion, I will steam a shirt, but usually what it looks like coming out of the dryer is what you will see.

4. I don't like wine. I've tried to like it. OK, fine, I didn't really try hard. I sipped it and declared it 'not my thing.'

5. I still get my feelings hurt. I really thought being an adult would bring some kind of emotional epiphany where I would be impervious to what other people say/think about me. I was very, very wrong. If it's possible, it's worse now than when I was a kid.

5a. I still cry.

6. I have terrible handwriting. I thought that all adults had neat handwriting that magically transformed into something legible once they got a certain age. That did not happen. Mine is a terrible mish mash of cursive and printing that always leans to the right and drops below the line.

That is just a sampling of why I think I can't possibly be an adult. (Ignore the obvious fact that I'm writing this from home in my PJs at 10 a.m.) What about you? Do you consider yourself an adult?