Growing Up

When I was little, I was certain that age 16 would mark the end-all be-all of my life. I just couldn't imagine beyond that point, and I was sure that at age 16 I would suddenly have long blonde hair, sun-kissed skin, and sparkling green eyes. I would drive an adorable red Fiat and I'd have an array of handsome boyfriends (thanks, Sweet Valley High; you have scarred me for life). I would be popular and smart. Since I couldn't imagine that life could get any better, that was where my imagination ended. When Jenny and I played Barbie, how old were we every time? 16. When we made up ridiculous games and pretended to be teenagers, what age did we desire? 16. When we played Girl Talk, the dating board game for boy-crazed tweens, what did we decide was the perfect age to begin dating? You guessed it--16.

When I actually was 16, I was rather dismayed to find myself with frizzy red hair, recently removed braces, spindly legs, about a million freckles, and skin that sunburned in a matter of mere minutes. I drove a yellow Ford Futura, a "classic" from 1978. I drank Southern Comfort in the bushes at the park. I considered dropping out of high school but ended up at the community college instead. I listened to Simon and Garfunkel on vinyl and thought that it had never been done before. When I was 16, the next point in my life that I could imagine, the farthest reach, was age 21. I would probably be an exchange student studying literature somewhere in Europe, and I would know about drinking wine and politics.

In real life, at age 21 I was living in a huge, rented house with a pack of awesome ladies and a handful of strange boys (banished to the basement apartment and left to their own devices) at the slummy end of frat row in Seattle. Someone's runaway pet rat lived in the kitchen cupboard and a homeless man set up camp in the shed in the backyard. I rode my bike to school, cursed algebra daily, and drank margaritas from a bucket. I signed on with a semi-radical environmental group to register college-age voters and wrote letters to the editor about everything from the pipeline explosion in Bellingham to the sad lack of student interest in local politics. I dated a bartender with a wandering eye and lived on tater tots and veggie dogs boiled in cheap beer. Every now and then I thought about age 30. Would I make it that far? I couldn't imagine--it was so old! So far away!

Here I am, age 33, and I still don't have anything figured out. I am almost always out of the loop when the conversation veers toward the latest video clip that is cracking up you-tube-surfers across "the internets," and I barely know a pinot from a chardonnay. I often say the wrong thing. I forget to check my oil and I fall down a lot. I sometimes go to the library and realize that I have forgotten my library books, and I recently put two DVDs into the recycling bin for no apparent reason. Luckily Eric found them and returned them to their more sensible post on top of the DVD player.

However, I do know how to make a mean lasagna, and I can roll my own sushi, and I can almost always find something to wear. I never forget garbage day. I take good care of the various cats, fish, birds, and houseplants that make our lives richer. I love giving presents. I am constantly delighted by the rosebushes at our house and I still love riding my bike. I finally understand algebra (kind of).

I can't imagine life at 40, or 50, or 75, but for now, I think I am ready to take it one day at a time.