I think I have yet to mature…mentally, anyway.
I have a secret and if you promise you won’t tell anyone, I’ll share it with you. Promise? Yeah? Awesome. I’ll be 35 years old in nine days. Shhhh! You promised you wouldn’t tell!
35 is a nice, respectable age. Kinda still young, but kinda old enough to know better, you know? I have two kids, but I’m still a college student. 35’s a good middle point, bridging youth and old age.
But something makes me think I should perhaps now be a “real grown-up” and not play video games or watch Curious George and Sesame Street on the telly when my kids aren’t around. Something tells me that I should drink coffee and wine more than I drink apple juice and rum and Coke. Something tells me that I should have a “real” job and stop farting about with cameras and half-finished novels that will never get published…or even finished.
I try to be a good grown-up and eat my veg before I eat dessert. I try to set a good example for my kids and do my chores around the house before I allow myself play time. Isn’t this a sign of maturity? But somehow, I don’t feel very much like a grown-up. I suppose it could be the fact that late at night, as The Man and I are trying to relax enough to go to sleep, I poke him and tickle him and stick my finger in his ear and tweak his nose. When he asks me what the hell I’m doing, I invariably answer, “I’m bored,” like some spoilt little ten-year-old brat who demands constant entertainment and distraction. Methinks this behaviour is not a hallmark of maturity. In fact, I know it’s not because my seven year old does it to his big sister.
I think, upon further reflection, that I’m just not going to make a very good grown-up. I think that some small part of me will always watch Sesame Street when there are no small children around, and drink rum and Coke instead of horrible foofy wine, and annoy my bed partner when I’m bored. I imagine I’ll still be doing this at the ripe old age of 75. Of course, by then, it could be chalked up to senile dementia.