When I was eight, I couldn’t wait to grow up. At the time, growing up meant that I wouldn’t need to ask my mom for permission anymore to play outside. That was all my little heart desired.
It feels like time goes by slow, but it flies. Ferris Bueller once said, “Life moves pretty fast.” And he’s right. Yesterday I was just 10 and still playing with Barbies. Now I am 19 and three weeks away from no longer being a teenager. I’m turning the big two-zero. Not really as exciting as turning 21, but I’d like to think of it as the year I start transitioning to being an actual adult.
But I’m not ready to grow up yet.
First of all, I don’t look like my age. It’s like I never went through puberty. I have the chest of a nine-year-old boy. I’m barely five feet tall. People are always surprised when I tell them how old I am and I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t think I was in college either if I met myself. There are 13-year-old girls who look much older than me, which is kind of scary. My friends never fail to remind me how young and small I look. As if that is not enough, I’ve also got my family looking at me like I am still the same little seven-year-old girl I once was. But this is the least of my worries.
Knowing that I am about to have more responsibilities overwhelms me because, for most of my life, my mom has been doing everything for me. From my first day of preschool to my last day of senior year in high school, she made me breakfast every morning and packed my lunch every day. She always did my laundry (and still does whenever I’m home from college.) She makes the important phone calls to my doctors and schedules my appointments. She takes care of bills I get and other miscellaneous expenses I have. I wish I can keep depending on my mom for every single thing, but I can’t.
Here’s the thing: I’m scared to be a real adult because I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t know how to cook let alone eat right since my mom isn’t around to watch my diet. I still struggle doing laundry. Just the other day I made the most rookie mistake by washing my red hoodie with some of my white shirts (for the record, I always mix my clothes and nothing ever happens). I leave my clothes wrinkly and hope they magically smooth themselves out because no one taught me how to use an iron or a steamer. Whenever I have to call any of my doctors or the pharmacy to get a refill, I call my mom first to make sure I know what exactly I’m going to say.
And now it makes sense why Peter Pan never wanted to grow up.
