My life has been a study in maturity avoidance.

Maybe that's stating it a little strongly. I'm not a goof. I've just managed to get this far with only a mortgage and a career to show for it.

You have to be a responsible person to have those things, of course. But you don't necessarily have to be mature. It never occurred to me that I might be an adult because of them.

So what is it to be adult?

Al Bundy notwithstanding, I think it's being married ... with children.

Married with children means you're no longer living for yourself. Not that single people don't give of their time to others, but spouses and parents are legally, genetically and emotionally required to — with each other, every day, for life.

That's a mantle.

I don't know if it's being a Gen-Xer, that being part of the video-game generation means we're predisposed to being Peter Pans, but there are quite a few of us rolling around without that mantle.

Life unfolds as one Seinfeld episode to the next. We debate — at length — whether "WALL-E" or "The Dark Knight" was the best film of the year. We compare and contrast the best jokes from the Chris Rock concert. We discuss whether we're going to try and hit The Police World Tour a third time.

Conversations among the Married-Friends-With- Babies set roll differently. There's a lot of talk about healthcare, childcare, work-life balance, the cost of things and What Baby Did Today.

Which is all good. Parents are supposed to talk about those things. But it's hard for me to think I would someday shift into that from my current state of frivolousness.

It's just so mature.

In the last month I've seen two more sets of friends march the aisle and get ready for baby — one couple is pregnant, the other is two years max before production begins. As it has been with my other friends who've jumped in with gusto, it will be interesting to watch the transformation occur.

They always promise they won't change, but of course they do! How can they not? Their priorities have changed. It's time to be serious. Getting floor seats isn't the goal anymore.

(I know, right, how can that not be the goal?)

Then again, I guess middle ground is possible. The most immature man I know is married — to my sister. Ben is the king of toilet humor. Homer Simpson is his hero. There's never a shortage of laughs, but sometimes it's so shame.

However, when my sister had a years-long medical crisis that finally began abating a few months ago, no one was more devoted to her care than Ben. He's a rock.

If Ben can be a grown-up, there's hope for us all.

Reach Christine Strobel at cstrobel@honoluluadvertiser.com.