I might not be a mature adult. Every day I come home with a Happy Meal toy for you, Cookie, is a day where I proudly walked into the lobby of a Manhattan office building, rode the elevator upstairs, and strolled through the corridors of a high powered office, unabashedly carrying a Happy Meal. Does that make me immature? Nope.
Does tempting all of the people glumly carrying salads (especially those trapped in the elevator) with the wonderful aroma of the extra large order of fries make me immature? A little bit.
Does leaving my office door open during lunch with the happy meal box prominently placed on my desk and with the wonderful aroma of the extra large order of fries wafting down the hall to contaminate my side of the floor make me immature? Heh.
In my defense, I do share the fries with anyone who asks.