Coming of Age

For those who don't know I turned twenty last week. In preparation of my departure from moody, spot ridden teenage-hood to responsible, self-important adulthood I had prepared bag containing several different types anti-depressants; to deal with the responsibility and the realization that everything goes down hill from here - and a catalogue of mediocre (but worthy) novels to read in all the free time I wouldn't I be having.

When I awoke on the morning of my birthday I was surprised to find that my skin hadn't suddenly turned gray and that shoulders weren't slumped under the weight of all those things and jobs I had to do. Even more surprising was that I still felt just like a teenager from the previous day. Where were the wrinkles? The liver spots?! The vague sense that something was missing from my life and could never be recovered?

I went down stairs for breakfast expecting to be greeted by my parents with a grim mutual respect and realization of my new place in life. Instead my mother jumped down my throat for "leaving your shoes untidily in the hall," and when sat down for breakfast to remind to "please have a piece of fruit.' Then-"and put less butter on that toast you'll have a heart attack." The-"and make sure you dry your hair properly before you go out, I don't want you getting a cold. I don't need a sick child to deal with."

(Now I don't mean to quibble about word definitions but I'm pretty sure that after nineteen years of age one can't be referred to as a child. I don't have a high voice anymore or spill food over myself OR do infantile things) (Not very often... anyway.)

So maybe being twenty isn't all that different?

The day my mother stops seeing me as a child will be...

probably never.