I can remember when I was a teenager, secretly dying to be 30.
I thought: “People would finally take me serious when I am 30.”
Kind of like when you are in elementary school and you cannot wait to get acne—because it is a mark of age.
Growing up, all we want to do is grow up.
We want time to fly, years to pass, until we get to that magical age where everything comes together and life just makes sense.
I turned 31 last weekend.
And life still does not make any sense.
And being in your thirties is a lot like being fifteen. You get angry over the unimportant.
You still slam doors to prove a point. You cry softly in the shower. Your legs are too long for your body.
People still do not take you serious, and now they call it “adult acne.”
The difference is, you are more at peace with where you are in life.
Hopefully. Even if there are many aspects that are exactly the same as when you were half your age, you are writing your own story.
Creating this being, this person that can be used for good or evil.
This girl that now has to be referred to as a “woman,” which in itself sounds awkward. But you still wake up each morning, fresh and anew, looking at the same sunrise, and anxiously await to see where this moment, this day, this year will take you. (Although, when you fight and fuss with the dryer, certain that you are going to have to call a repairman, just make sure there are clothes in the machine, the door is firmly closed and try to press that start button one last time. You can do this. Common sense apparently does not come with age.)
It seems people dread coming of age.
I say bring on new adventure, new experience, new friends, divine encounters.
And when my children are 15 and wish they were slightly taller, I will point them to my husband and tell them they are out of luck.