Regressing

Around middle school, I went through a “too cool for you” phase. Everything remotely childish, or pertaining to childhood, was shunned, ignoring the fact that I threw tantrums and acted like a kid trapped inside a preteen body. I wanted to go out and be wild. I wanted to do things my own, independent way. I swore just to be cool, bought clothes exclusively from teen stores, and bragged about the fact that I was “only two years away from high school.” In my own eyes, I was twelve going on twenty. I thought my older teenage years would be even better. I’d have a hot boyfriend, a flat stomach, and a driver’s license–maybe even my own car. My life was supposed to be a sexier, wilder version of High School Musical. I fixated on that future and looked forward every single day.

Now that I’m actually approaching adulthood, I feel like I’ve actually regressed. I wondered this the other day while throwing a sticky hand at the ceiling (and contemplating buying 144 more). I don’t give a shit about being “cool” anymore. I wear hand-me-down tee shirts and the same pair of tattered Converse every day. I sleep with stuffed animals and a cartoon frog blanket. I eat cheese balls straight from the bag. Freud would probably call this regression. A defense mechanism to shield myself from the nearing responsibilities of adulthood. A form of denial. But really, is this what it’s like to be an adult? Playing with sticky hands and eating cheese balls? I’m content with that right now, but I’m worried that once I become an adult, I’ll have to abandon all that and become my (now non-existent) twelve-year-old fantasy. I don’t want that. I kind of just want to be a kid again so I wouldn’t have to face all this looming reality.

 

 

 

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