Does anyone else struggle with this? Or am I the only person on the planet who believes that at age 53 she should feel like an adult, and doesn’t?
I remember thinking that I would be all big and fancy when I was eight. Because I would learn how to write cursive and all that. And when I was 12, that would be good and grown up…same for 15, 19, 23, 27, 33, 35, 38, 42, 46, 50. And each time, it eludes me. I mean, I am ok with this ‘life is a journey’ stuff. But I just keep on thinking that the birthday around the corner will present me with a piece of, well, understanding and wisdom and peace. Kind of a settled-in-ness.
On paper I look pretty good. I have a list of accomplishments that would allow me to fake my way into adulthood. Granted, they are shared accomplishments with the real adult in the family, Steve. But I can lay claim to most of them.
I still feel like such a punk.
Just like I did yesterday. And last year. Still losing stuff under my stuff, still having immature reactions to almost everything, still making fart jokes and burping, and buying blue nail polish (which really looked awful, by the way). I don’t know how to cook a pot roast (or how to recognize one) or change a car tire. I have a potty mouth, a collection of girl superhero dolls, and the ability to watch really stupid TV for hours.
Maybe by 55….yeah, two more years…that will be the ticket.
For today I am going to have coffee with a friend, take myself to a movie in the afternoon (Eat, Love, Pray) and have cake. I don’t know what else the day holds in store for me, but I suspect that maturity stuff will get shelved for a little while longer.
Happy to me.