27 Going On 10
When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a “grown up.”
When I was a 12, I wanted to be 13. When I was 13, I wanted to be 16. When I was 16, I wanted to be 18. And when I was 18 u already know I wanted to be 21. And then …
And then … I wanted to stop the hands of time.
But instead, I turned 25. And now that I’ll be turning 2-cringe-8 this year, good God 25 doesn’t sound so bad.
Not. bad. at. all.
But I kid u not. I am not ur typical 27-year old. And not ‘cuz I think I’m different, or special, or unique, or awesome but because … well, I’m kinda weird.
I name all my electronics (i.e. Andre 3000 my Wacom tablet, Me-Thu my DS Lite, and Kirby my Honda Del Sol). I practice acceptance speeches for awards I’ve never received and interviews that have never occured in full detail ‘cuz u just never know lol (“I would like to dedicate this designer of the year award to all those with no style. Please – help me, help you …”). And sometimes when I’m by myself, I reinact scenes from movies (The last one was Paris Hilton’s death scene from House of Wax).
I stick my legs in pillow cases and pretend I’m a mermaid, and twirl my hair around my fingers to fall asleep. My favorite book is The Jolly Postman, and one time I followed this little ant that was carrying a piece of cookie on top of its back a block and a half in the wrong direction while walking to my house just ‘cuz I was curious to see where it was going. Then, one day me and my girl were at Albertson’s and I started scaling the endcaps of every aisle as if I was on a “Top Secret” mission to buy eggs and milk.
Yah, I know. I’m thinking the same thing u are too, trust me.
And just last night as I was sipping water from one cup through a straw and spilling it back out into another, my bf goes, “Ok and how old are u again?”
I just sat there head down while kicking my feet against my chair and mumbled, “27.”
Mind u, my bf is 4 years younger than me.
Maybe it’s the fact I’m an only child. Maybe it’s the fact I didn’t have a “normal” childhood. Or maybe I’m really Petra Pan. Whatever it is, I agree, I don’t act my age. But I figure, I got my own car keys, pay my own bills, have my own spot, do the 9-5 thang, and handle my responsibilities. I’m not married, don’t have any kids, and ain’t hurtin nobody. There’s a time and place for everything, so if I don’t have to act grown then I’m not.
But I look at my mom who’s 20 years sr. and notice that she’s only a slight calmer version of myself. She still tells retarded jokes, and acts goofy. She can impersonate Paula Abdul’s coke’d out demeanor on American Idol to a “T”, and tries to imitate the Jabbawockeez dance moves. My mom’s damn near 50 and we still crank call each other at work.
It makes me wonder, “How old will I be when I stop acting like this?” “Will I ever grow up?” “Do I have to?” It makes me sad thinking that one day I may wake up and not have the same imagination or spunk or spark for life. But then once again, I look at my mom and realize that it’s not necessarily her good genes that keep her shittin on some 20-sumthn year olds, it’s her playfullness, humor, and young at heart attitude. We don’t get older, only wiser. We appreciate things more, become more experienced, and even more beautiful. Alas, there is hope.
So in that sense – I can’t wait to be 28 running around in my dinosaur print onesie singing “Happy Birthday,” into my hairbrush.