I have no words left in me; they're all floating out there in the great expanse of virtual bits and bytes. Two things--I have finished my applications, each and every one of them. I am also, as of right the minute this is published (12:53) 18 years old. I can vote, have sex, and get my own passport.
Or I could do what I did ten years ago. See, when I was about to turn 8, I was not so happy. Why? Because I really liked being 7. I was sentimental, and emotionally attached to it as an age. So when I went to my parents in tears about turning 8, they offered me a suggestion: I was not 8, I was 7....plus 1.
I don't think, in all honesty, that I'm ready to be 18. I'm not ready to be "grown up", I'm sure as hell not ready to have sex (really, if I'm being honest, I'm not) or politically educated enough to vote or confident enough to go try and figure out the mysteries of getting my own passport by myself.
I am perfectly content being who I am at this very instant, and that person is not suddenly any different because she is a legal adult. There are a lot of expectations from people our age and from older folks like our parents once we turn 18, and I don't think that's quite fair. I was really no more mature at 7 years, 11 months, and 27 days than I was at 8 years flat.
And so I will remain at 17 plus 1, happy with myself, relieved that applications are in, and ready to sit on my ass in front of my laptop for the rest of the week. Also a little worried, because I feel like this blog is turning into one giant proclamation of "WE ARE WOMEN. WE ARE ONE. ONE BIG WOMAN."
Except it's just me and my Lone Commenter. I guess that makes me Blogger-Tonto--and hell, I can deal with that. I don't mind not getting the glory, staving off the fanfare and the indulgences for another year.
And I'm Indian. Clearly, this was meant to be.
p.s. Happy birthday, Weebil. You're awesome, and I love you very much.
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2 comments:
Oh hai.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
For your birthday I am giving you a big gift-wrapped DENIED on the idea that you're not fit to be legal. Sure, 18 means you're allowed to vote and have sex and get a passport, but it doesn't mean you HAVE to. In fact, that's what being legal is all about: it means that you legally have the choice to do those things or not, because somewhere along the line, some government committee decided that 18 is the age by which most people have gotten to know themselves. Which you certainly seem to. By confidently doubting that you're ready to do adult-ish things, you have proven yourself to be more mature than a gosh darn many adults.
Hopefully, someday along the line you will realize "Oh, I am ready to do such-and-such," and then you'll realize how convenient it is that you're of a legal age. Until then, be proud. You're not setting yourself up to get pregnant by accident, or vote for Palpatine, or...however the hell you could abuse the privilege of getting a passport. (Going to Central America?)
I don't feel particularly ready to be an adult either, but something that makes me happy to be 18 is this: my Youtube account, to which I foolishly gave my real age, now allows me to watch...well, everything I want to. (Hell, only the lone commenter is going to see this.)
WE ARE WOMAN.
This was a helpful contribution from the Not-So-Lone Commenter.
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