More than 18.

As I sit here typing at the computer in my parents’ house, I am sporting my red homecoming shirt from senior year and my fingers are glossed over with a fresh coat of bright sparkly coral nail polish. Meanwhile, I also try aimlessly to read The Second Summer of the Sisterhood, a hopeless romantic type of book.

Six months ago, I boarded a plane with 15 strangers, all headed for a continent we assumed would be flooded with wild lions roaming savannas and elephants wandering the streets. I experienced things that most only ever dream of. I lived on my own for two months with 4 amazing roommates, of course.

And now I’m just confused. I don’t understand how, in one setting, I could find such strong independence and maturity, and in another, I find myself so disgusted with the thought of my immaturity, being young, being dependent, and wearing coral nail polish.

I like the nail polish. It’s pretty. But it makes me feel so young. Why does this seem like such a bad thing? Is it a bad thing? I’m embarrassed of who I am right here, so vulnerable, naive, young. I want to be thought of as a woman, not a girl. I want to be taken seriously, not looked down upon. I desire true love, not infatuation. So, why is it so easy for me to come home after the two most wonderful months of my life and turn back to this? Is there a part of me that still longs to be a young girl? a child?

It’s not that I don’t want to grow up too fast. Perhaps there is a part of me that wants to stay young, but however overwhelming that part of me is, the parts of me that want to be taken seriously, to be understood as more than 18, those parts are so much more.

How do I get out of this rut? Can it even be called a rut? How do I prove myself? Can I? Why does it matter so much? I just don’t want anyone to go on growing older, thinking that I’ll be staying here, remaining younger.

What a silly thing to ponder. What a silly day to have my mind on these things.

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