Next week, I’ll be 23. Whoa. That’s one wobbly step further into the dizzying twenty-something range.
While reflecting on the past year, I have reminisced about my previous endeavors, wrestled with awaiting goals and graduated from university. But. One thought has really been digging its claws in me: I have not aged the way I thought I would have aged into my twenties. No. I ain’t talking physical maturity. I mean that being in this age range, to my inner self, feels like I’m surprisingly youthful for my age. Emotionally and mentally.
Throughout my childhood and on into my teens, I held this mega perception of twenty-something gals. Whether I was propelling high standards for myself or not, I’m much less sophisticated than I believed I would have been. I thought that (by now) I would be grinding in the workforce far way from my hometown, sipping cocktails with my legs crossed and sliding that sofa into my new apartment or even house. But, wait. You aren’t thinking this is one of those posts swelling thoughts about feeling sorry for oneself, are you? Well, there is no need to grab the Kleenex. Keep reading.
Stepping onto the 20 year mark (and then 21, then 22) has nudged me toward being startlingly youthful. Who knew that my 12-year-old self was so incorrect about the coming decade?
The time out of the academic sphere has paved the way for self-reflection, leading to, what I suppose, is emotional release. Some of my straight faced reactions have been exchanged for chuckles. What is residual is that I’m more goofy (well, selectively goofy), and I’ve been exploring the other angles of my natural character. Though, folks who know of me outside of cyberspace will argue that I’m forever the utmost professional and vocally reserved, but my downtime has me more goofy than ever. I’m even embracing a minor alter-ego but cannot release too much now (hint: Camels and barrettes). Be sure to check back for a post about that.
Know that I am not alluding to yearning for those carefree days of childhood, meaning I’ll fill out the job application with that violet crayon; concerns, responsibilities and uncertainties are bursting in with the typing of this post. I’m not dismissing my peers and contemporaries who seem to have reached adulthood faster than I, either, and I’m almost sure my sentiments are shared–somehow. I know I’m not as womanish as I thought I would be, and that is fine. (I’ll save that for my thirties or forties!)
So, I’m slightly convinced that getting older is having unpredictable effects on my psyche. Where I thought I would grow into seriousness, I’ve grown into accepting my sillier self. Being in my twenties feels like, meh, a mere extension of my teens. I’m learning that it’s possible to embrace and exude both professionalism and lightheartedness. I like to think of myself as a girlish young woman.
Now’s the time for you to get that something off of your chest. Do you think you act your age?