As a little girl, I idolized being a teenager. I would start high school at 15, pass my driver’s test at 16, get my first boyfriend at 17, graduate, and begin college at 18. Clearly, I had plans, and my dream world was waiting. The only thing I needed was to be a teen.
On my thirteenth birthday, I was thrilled. It was a Sunday, so I attended a church that morning. It was as if I had woken up vastly more mature. I had gone to bed as a child and rose as a young woman. For this purpose, I wore an orange flowy shirt, ripped jeans, and heels. I was on fire, and no one could douse my flames.
My precious scheme worked seamlessly. I started high school at 15, passed my driver’s test at 16, got my first boyfriend at 17, and graduated and began college at 18. Unfortunately, my divine design was less organized than I once thought. In fact, I turned 19, and I had zero ideas for my yearly milestone.
It was a Sunday, so I attended a church that morning. I wore a white shirt and orange flowy jeans. I was not more mature. I was not ready to be mature. Adulthood was near and daunting, but as I was eating a celebratory brunch, I looked around. My two new best friends were sitting across from me laughing, and the boy I’ve dated since I was 17 was smiling.
I rested in that moment. The sun shone through the windows, and the waitress placed my cinnamon roll french toast before me. Aubrey and Karsyn’s giggles rang in my ears, and I could feel it in my bones. Burning, searing, daring me to be happy. “I could live my year like this,” I thought, “I could live my whole life like this.” And I smiled.
