I’m a huge procrastinator. I put off yawning sometimes, only ’cause I know it’ll put me to sleep.

My sink has dishes in it that haven’t been washed since October. Homework and essays mean “later” or “the night before” in my world.

Instead of doing what I should be doing, I sit around and collect unanswerable questions regarding life – then I yawn and go to sleep.

How we got here, where we’re going, what it all means. And I don’t think I’m alone in wondering about the vagueness of existence. But at times I do feel alone when asking: “At what age do we magically transform into adults?”

Did I miss a timeline included in a memo I was handed at birth that was somehow lost? (Maybe the doctor ate it?) Was I supposed to enroll in a course here on campus that instructs us on how to transition from adolescence into adulthood?

Just what is being an adult mean anyway? I can guarantee you, each one of us would have a different answer for that question, and that makes life even more complicated. When do we know, or more specifically, at what age are we grown-ups?

I do feel, though, that as we age, our clothing should reflect this change in body and mind. Are you going to wear sagging jeans and look like a slob for the rest of your days? And, girls, although my brothers and I love halter tops, you’re going to have to hang them up someday.

Not to mention hoochie skirts, ghetto boots, camo cargo shorts, and those awful T-shirts with slogans like, “I’m drunk. You’ll do,” which should read, “I’m a moron. Give me an STD.”

If we don’t start changing things, the dads I observe who look like they mugged a 13-year-old kid for his outfit will never get the message. Over winter break, while holiday shopping, I was ogling a woman from behind in the hair care aisle who looked attractive. Tight jeans, leather boots, sleek hair and great legs.

I admit, it was a rude-male-pig-like thing to do, and I’m sorry for it. Then I was really sorry. When she turned around I realized that I was checking out someone’s grandma. We locked eyes for a blushing moment and I quickly darted away, clutching my shampoo.

Although I’m not Harold, she could have been Maude (a 21st-century Maude) but it’s all the same: Grandmas should not be dressed like twentysomethings. And it’s not only because there are men like me out there who are going to embarrass themselves by checking them out – I actually feel bad for her grandchildren.

So, the sexy grandma isn’t my answer to adulthood. The government would have you believe that at 18 you’re an adult. You can buy lottery tickets, porn, cigarettes and go out and vote, too.

But unless you have an older sibling or friend, or a fake ID, you can’t buy alcohol. That would mean you aren’t an adult at 18 if the government doesn’t think you’re responsible enough to drink.

At 21 you can buy the almighty beer. But are you an adult? Once again, our government has failed us. Nothing new there.

So if Uncle Sam can’t help out, how about my parents? They’re grown up. I think. My parents tell me that growing up doesn’t have a single definition. In fact, countless stories have been told of a protagonist’s “coming of age” tale in which he or she learns something profound, deals with it and, therefore, “grows.” At what age do we move onto a higher plane of thought and emotion not obtained before?

From what I’ve learned (and been told), it’s different for all of us. For some, this revelation could come after a traumatic breakup with a first love. For others, it could be the realization of mortality. Either way we’ve got to hijack the day and each moment provided.

So, like Peter Pan and all the Toys”R”Us kids, we may never grow up unless we choose to. But right now, I think I’ll put it off a little bit longer and sleep on it.