Twenty-two

Birthdays are funny things.

I was thinking today about one of my favorite short stories, "Eleven" by Sandra Cisneros. I love this passage: 

"What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don’t. ... You feel like you’re still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven.

Like some days you might say something stupid, and that’s the part of you that’s still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama’s lap because you’re scared, and that’s the part of you that’s five. And maybe one day when you’re all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you’re three, and that’s okay. That’s what I tell Mama when she’s sad and needs to cry. Maybe she’s feeling three."

I can relate to the little girl in the story today. The only difference is that today I'm 22, not 11, so that gives me twice as many years to swift through when I act a certain way. And I'm figuring out the the more years you have layered under your age, the more complicated your actions get.


Sometimes, I get nervous to graduate because I don't know what's coming next, and that's the part of me that's still 18. Sometimes, I see Ryan and I get butterflies and don't know what to say, and that's the part of me that's still 13. Sometimes I drive like I'm 16, and I still feel like a 6-year-old playing house. 


Today I went to Primary with my niece and I did the actions to the songs. That's the part of me that's still 7. Right now I'm procrastinating my homework like I'm 17. 


I really feel like I'm still 21. And I am — underneath the year that makes me 22.