Being an adult.

Soon I will be 26. I don’t know what it is about life where we feel so old when in reality many of us are young, still in our 20s. People in their 30s tell me I’m still a baby, and I get what they are saying. They’re saying, you’re young, you still have time, I have 8 years on you, so don’t worry, you’ll get there. And I will get there, but that doesn’t change the fact that with each birthday I actually feel older. I remember even at the age of 12 feeling so old. I felt like I knew it all. I felt like I was practically an adult. To prove my adultness, I’d walk 10 steps ahead of my parents in the airport to appear as if I was responsible (and old enough) to travel alone. Or at the grocery store I’d push our shopping cart as far from my mom as possible, so that people would think I was shopping alone, and therefore an adult. It didn’t matter if I was barely 5 feet, had gapped teeth, no boobs and acne all over my face. I was convinced I was an adult. All I ever wanted to be was an adult.

And now I’m almost 26. Which means I’m closer to 30 than 20. I suppose I really am an adult now, and I feel like an adult, yes… but at the same time, I still feel like a kid. Half the time I have no idea what I’m doing, and everything feels like trial and error. Thankfully, I’m better at detecting those repeated trials, avoiding errors I’ve already learned lessons from. But I’m still just winging it, doing the best I can as me. I type this, at almost 26, and I feel like *me*. But I know that one day I will be 46 and I will still be me. And at 66 and 76 and 86 I will still feel like me. At 96 I hope I still feel like me, I’ll just be old. But the spirit inside of me, that’ll still be me. Only then, I will wish I were that 12 year old kid, pushing my shopping cart as far away from my mom as possible.