I'm going to admit something to the ladies reading this blog that will either be very attractive or make absolutely no impact, depending on how old they are:
I own shares of stock.
I have various amounts of money in various markets and funds and things. I made these decisions based on the information provided to me by my financial adviser. Also? I have a financial adviser (ladies ... or, rather, ladies born sometime before 1985). I met with my financial adviser, and now I own stock. A bunch of different stocks. I just own 'em, right up. Like, they're mine, and I can do whatever I want with them. Sell them. Not sell them. And so forth.
Granted, I still don't actually know anything about stocks -- when my financial adviser sent me a statement of some kind, I asked him if he wanted me to keep it in my portfolio and inadvertently revealed that I thought a "portfolio" was a "briefcase" and that, further, I believed that I had one in my possession -- but I have stocks, and can do stuff to them, and having a thing is better than understanding it, always.
The first time I stepped back and realized that I was having a conversation on the phone with someone about what to do with shares of stock, I thought, "Surely I'm making an elaborate prank call; stock discussions are only for Monopoly Men, and Dads. This can't be me having this conversation; I'm just a boy covered in mustard stains." But it was me, and the mustard stains were actually mustard vinaigrette stains I'd acquired at a fancy restaurant that serves gourmet hot pretzels as an appetizer. I just adulted the s**t out of that situation.