I’m very immature.

Sure, my driver’s license says I’m almost 21, and sure, my other driver’s license says I’m a 28-year-old commercial truck driver from Missouri, but they don’t show the real me.

The real me is a child. He’s impulsive, impatient and always complaining about something. He even writes about himself in the third person.

It took me a long time to discover these flaws because I blame others for all of my life’s problems. But none of that is my fault.

The reason I’m so messed up is quite simple: I’m the baby of my family. With a mom, a dad, an older sister and two older brothers constantly looking out for me as a child, I knew that if I screwed up, somebody else would take care of the mess. I went through my childhood and adolescence about as aware of my surroundings as the iPodestrians who walk fearlessly through red lights each day into oncoming Comstock Avenue traffic.

So you can imagine how shocked the folks were when I told them I’d be spending this semester in an apartment with no meal plan, no resident adviser, no campus security and no Spanish host mom. They were just a little skeptical. Like troopers, they played along, encouraging my independence while slyly ironing name tags onto my underwear and packing my sock drawer with bicycle helmets labeled for each day of the week.

Still, I’m on my own now. Nobody’s here to cook my food, clean my bathroom or read me a bedtime story. I’m nobody’s baby now, just a man who relies on his wits and basic safety gear to help him get through the day.

Who the hell thought this was a good idea?

Two weeks into my grand off-campus experiment, I’m out of toilet paper, running low on food and have yet to figure out how to work the shower. Sure, I’ve survived thus far, but the neighbors won’t share their printer paper anymore, and now I’m running out of washcloths.

Yesterday, I went searching for my building’s laundry room, only to find I had mistakenly left my dirty clothes in the mailroom. Luckily, I got them back the next day, though some of my underwear were missing labels.

Eventually, I’ll figure this whole independence thing out and lead a functional life like every other adult, but why does personal progress have to be this difficult? Every time I think I’ve made real progress, I end up breaking something, losing something or, in one case, finding a gerbil.

Regardless, I’m going to keep at it until my parents are convinced I can take off my life training wheels (and my helmets) and live like a mature human being. It might not happen today, or even tomorrow, but some day I’m sure I’ll figure it out.

If not, then I guess I’m off to Missouri to pursue a career in commercial truck driving.

Danny Fersh is a junior broadcast journalism major. His column appears every Wednesday. He would like to assure his female readers that he’ll fix his shower by the next time you smell him. He can be reached at dafersh@syr.edu.