There is a mandatory time in every girls life. It is the time when you're a baby-tooth-grinning-five-year-old. It is when you try on Mom's high heels. You parade through the house delighting in the little clicking sound that follows you. You show everyone what your feet occupy, not waltzing away until you get the mandatory "You look like your fourteen in those." The problem is one candle filled birthday after another comes and you wear high heels again. Only they aren't moms. They're yours.
Growing up is scary. Too scary. As a baby-tooth-grinning-five-year-old I was only too happy to grow up. It meant make-up and cars and... high heels and... and... other super, super, super cool stuff! What happened to my enthusiasm. As a preteen I promised myself I would not, for all the doughnuts in the world, come down with teen symptoms (NOTE: My sister is a definite exception!) You know the usuals. The rolling of eyes, treating siblings like annoying cats, etc. But here I am a teenager and I hate to admit it but my temperatures running high. I have to stop myself. There's more. From what I hear it just keeps going. Growing up. It doesn't stop after your 20 or 80 it just keeps on going. More symptoms, more broken promises to myself.
Of course, as all stories (except, apparently Chinese) have to have happy endings there is the fact that growing up is always better than growing down. Or staying the same for that matter. So here's my conclusion (I know science teachers I'm making you proud) we can enjoy growing up and all the quirks it offers us. Laugh at the quirks, it seems to make you feel better. Be wise in how you grow and always be considerate of the people and objects (lets not forget doughnuts) around you. There, my piece of pretend wisdom is out. I can go complete the evil homework my teachers have presented for this weekend in peace.
Friday, August 5, 2011
I once stood upon a gritty cement driveway and hula hooped. Someone was watching a movie inside. Gun shots fired from an emotionless sound speaker. There's a place in my brain waiting for days like that. When I can bust out my multi-colored hula hoop and place my feet upon a driveway as colorless as Dr. Seus's books aren't. When the tiles in our hall kiss my feet with cool breezy lips. When Lollipops flutter through my unkempt thoughts with daffodil wings. When the breeze waltzs with my curtains. A day. A day that's something like hulahoops.