Maybe it was that Monday morning when I took my own advice into as much consideration as my own mother’s. Or possibly it was that Sunday evening I sold my first painting that I felt all grown up. But I believe it was an accumulation of incidences, minor and major, that happened over the years of my life which threw me head first, unwilling but not resentful, into adulthood.
That first time I missed rent made me realize that I had waded into a body of water full of responsibilities that I was not quite yet prepared for. But that Friday was full of flea market furniture finds for that first home that brought on the adoration of adulthood. But maybe the slap in the face I received when I was backpacking solo through Mexico and had to maneuver my way through Guatemala’s police force made adulthood take on its true formation for me.
Although I don’t think I needed a major event such as that, since lustfully tasting steamed asparagus and avocado pies continually reminds me I have passed teenage twinkies. Then again when I was down on my knees slobbering weeps to God in between repentance for my scandalous sins; I figured you had to be nearing 30 if you already found your spiritual guru.
Maybe the refining of this maturity came upon me that sunny afternoon I gave my 56-year-old girl friend advice. But refining happens through strain, struggle and frustration which I greet at the attempt of completing my first book, which is making me, say ‘Hello failure, you must come hand in hand with 40.’ But those days that I feel like an adult come and go. Just like how on a Tuesday I enjoy my same generation friend but on a Wednesday I converse better with her mother.
I mean I have to be grown up, right? Starbucks is my favorite hang out but then again I do insist on licking all of the whip cream gone before tasting that café-vanilla frappuccino. I roared with youthful bliss as I flirted with my Irish surfing instructor to only wake up the next morning with a soreness that made it all to clear that the next man I flirted with would be my chiropractor.
But I remember feeling like an undeveloped girl when I was eating gelato in Italy, standing next to the women whose figures were obviously the purest forms of woman hood. When I think of my heart, I feel my youth pound because it has not been worn and torn by the ways of men and the world but my heart still believes in prince charming and that happily ever after ending. But through the minor and major incidences that have occurred during my life I believe there has been a reoccurring one that always gives me the ‘O, crap I’m really all grown up’ feeling. And that is when my independency roots dig in and sprout. It happened in adolescence when I took care of my little brother and I could see my adult “me” buried in those teenage days when high school musical should have been found in the drama/horror isle.
Those independent days are the days I can easily taste my strength and what my character has developed into, proving I must have a 50-year-old’s tongue. I know I am grown up when I finally admit to myself that when the sun comes up if I want to change the world I have to be the one to get myself out of bed.
Some days I feel like a giddy girl who believes with every fiber of her being that all her dreams will indeed come true. Other days I feel like the 38-year-old woman who is still frantically seeking romance and purpose. And even though I have seen everything from Africa’s lions to Asia’s lepers with my own eyes, I am fortunate enough to have those rare days when I feel like the 20-year-old blonde that I am. All grown up, too mature for my own good and yet not quite an adult.
As I attempt to take on woman hood I find myself held captive by my naïve youthful nature. My humbling confidence reminds me every day that I am growing up, but that I have a long way to go. For today I am merely tripping into adulthood with the graceful essence of a 30 year-old wearing black stilettos and pink laced pigtails.
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