This past Sunday was my 20th birthday. 20 years. It’s a long time, made even longer by friends’ quips of “centuries ago today, you were born”. I mean, I don’t feel particularly old. Except maybe when I go up a steep flight of stairs too fast and am out of breath by the time I get to the landing.
I guess I just feel like this whole “growing up” thing is more sensationalised than it should be. Sure, getting to an age that entitles you to adult behaviour- driving, signing your own contracts, drinking, living on your own- is definitely a big deal. But does growing up mean forgetting all the things that you’ve discovered make it worth living?
No one can convince me that I’m not entitled to wear ridiculously high heels, fall victim to a few fashion trends, listen to really loud music, occasionally eat some unbelievably unhealthy food, attend some extremely dodgy parties, take risks with my life when I decide to go “out on the town”, live out some of my life situations based on cheesy Hollywood scripts, and make or lose friends after some considerable heart trauma- all this even way beyond my 20th year.
This might all just be my newly mature self (what does “mature” even feel like?) speaking, but I’d like to think there’s some truth in the cliche. Once you get to the centre of the cheese wheel, there’s always some type of reward, isn’t there?
Here’s to the 4th anniversary of my 16th birthday!
(I have to start buying into anti-aging schemes now, right? So denial is my first one.)
Nkhensani Manabe 