Do We Really Grow Up?

Of the few things that I’m not fickle minded about is my belief that age is just a number. It’s a state of mind, really. No matter how old I am, I always think I’m twelve. Perhaps, not so much as being a twelve year old. It’s just the excitement you’fd feel about things around you at that age. In transition between the age of innocence and the rapidly raging hormones. Just before the start into the real world. This is the part I like most about my theory. I’m still the curious kid who’s most comfortable in my high-tops and jeans. Though I may seem to be the serious type, I’m actually not. It’s perhaps just situations in which I’d like people to think so. Not one to brag that I may be wise beyond my years, but there is always a little kid inside us all. This way we will see the bright side of things, every time. Case in point, if I see a pile of autumn leaves, I will definitely jump into it. Not destructively but I think it’s therapeutic. I find joy in a toy store and I like watching looney tunes. These are just a few things that I never hope to get rid off.

On the flip side, are those who still act like a confused teenager. Well into their mid thirties veering towards their earlier forties but still stuck in their adolescent mindsets with high school-like dramatic moments. No, I don’t feel sad for them. There has to be a reason why they are the way they are. But I’m appalled to se a thirty seven year old woman dress like a sixteen year old and act like one. They probably still even read Seventeen magazine. It’s just so embarassing to them and unfortunately, they don’t mind it. In fact, they are proud of it.

I know it shouldn’t bother me but it does, and how! to distract me, I shall let the twelve year old side of me come out and play, and go about looking for the next pile of leaves to jump into.


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