As you mature, x matures with you.

I corroborated my dad’s theory on change and growth throughout high school. I applied x to everything ranging from my relationships to my studies and, as it turned out, I never matured, and neither did anything that pertained to me.

I expected most aspects of my disorganized lifestyle to evolve as I transitioned into college and dorm life. Nevertheless, I had accustomed myself to the perks that come with “only child status” — a neat room, clean clothes and delicious meals materialized whenever I wanted them. Without my parents’ help and constant supervision, hopelessness overcame me.

I decided I needed to grow up one way or another, unaware that one cannot achieve maturity by undertaking simple tasks.

Making my bed proved challenging, despite having accomplished this arduous task with formidable effort several times in the past. The fitted sheet — a cunning trickster — would not stick to all four corners of my bed.

Whenever I found the chance to lay the comforter on my mattress, the sheet would untuck itself from one of the corners; it seemed as if a team of meticulous sociologists studied behavioral patterns by testing the limits of my patience with a remote control from afar.

Infuriated by the continuous deceit, I tossed everything but the comforter and my old pillow into a trash bag, where they spent the remainder of their days in utter darkness.

Laundry, a most daunting exercise, was next in line. Images of my mom throwing socks and underwear in a washing machine filled my memory bank, yet I failed to recall the specific intricacies of this ritual.

Even though I found related instructions on Google, they morphed into hieroglyphics and advanced mechanical engineering problems with every sentence I read. My brow hosted an ocean of sweat — I wondered whether dignity would keep me from wearing twice-recycled clothes to class. An acquaintance soon offered to assist as he witnessed my meltdown in the middle of the dorms’ laundry room. Though delivered in English, his advice soon made him sound fluent in ancient European tongues, long forgotten by society.

Thirty minutes later, as I removed pink socks from the washing machine, the idea of growing up seemed further away than ever, as if this notion existed within a dimension unknown to mankind.

Frightened, alone and defeated by inanimate objects, I stomped off toward my bedroom. I found a warzone upon my return — shirts on my desk, floor and even on the toilet seat gave the impression of fallen soldiers, while a battalion of underwear took shelter behind my TV.

I came to the subsequent realization that the invading army was none other than me.

I treat my pampering like an addiction — it requires a series of steps, the first of which is self-awareness. Once I got rid of my dumbfounded pride, I acknowledged a variety of aspects about myself I needed to improve.

I woke up starving the next morning.