I had to type that in order to believe it. Now, with those words boldly staring back at me on my fingerprint-smudged computer screen, it is starting to sink in.
I knew this was coming and I ardently ignored the signs. Nearly all of my friends started school this week; my Facebook news feed has since been clogged with pictures and statuses about fresh starts and uniforms and inevitably huge amounts of homework. All my books are piled neatly on the bottom shelf of the bookcase by the front door (a blessedly smaller pile than last year's). On a drive the other day I noticed some of the trees lining the highway were turning gold, and it's not even September yet.
Why have I had such a hard time letting go of summer? Because, to be honest, I don't want to grow up. I am a Peter Pan, avoiding adulthood like the plague for fear of careers and business clothes and responsibility.
Yeah, I'm immature. I can shamelessly say that, and my closest friends would quickly agree. I'm a child at heart. I have the inherent ability to be the totally mature, confident young woman that some people admire and trust, yet at the same time, just under the surface, I'm the 6-year-old with an awkward sense of style and messy hair. My idea of getting dressed on days when I don't leave the house is putting on another pair of pajamas or sweats. I intentionally mismatch my socks. I watch Disney movies and sing along to every song (but come on, what girl doesn't know all the words to "A Whole New World" or "I'll Make A Man Out Of You?"). I put sprinkles on my pancakes and forget to brush my hair and consider it a capitol offense when my parents have the audacity to send me to bed early.
I don't know why Mom and Dad think it's a wise idea to send me off to college next fall. Who knows how I'll survive guided by my own judgement? With no one to help me cook something -anything- without poisoning the food? No one to tell me to take one or two Tylenol when I'm under the weather? Not having to make my own decisions for seventeen and a half years has been great, but it certainly has not prepared me for The Real World.
In all honesty, I love knowing I can still act like a kid and get away with it. I think I still look younger than I am. Being brought up as one of the younger kids in a big family, I spent a lot of time with my little brother and sister (who aren't really little anymore- they're both taller than me). I don't mind. I excuse myself by saying I'm soaking up as much immaturity and whining as I can before I officially become a grown-up and have to act my age. Might as well get it all out of my system now, before crossing the barrier into Adulthood.
Well, that's my philosophy. A lot of people might disagree with that, and you know how I would handle them? Probably by sticking out my tongue and laughing maniacally and skipping away. Unleashing my inner 6-year-old is my favorite comeback. Of course, there are possibly people who think I'm a mature, well-raised young lady and would deny everything I have said in this post. To them, I would most likely laugh and shake my head and say, with a smile, "if only you knew."
--Laura
p.s, just in case you needed visual proof, here I am in Cookie Monster footy pajamas. Point and case. |
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