I Feel Old

I know I’m too young to say this, but sometimes there are moments where I forget that I’m not 17 anymore.  And when the reality of my 25 years of age hits me, it’s really quite sad.

In the moment, I don’t think “Wow I feel like I’m 17” (or 19, or 23 – all numbers that were great ages and that I sometimes feel I will always be).  Rather, it’s in the midst of the moment that I realize I am 25.  And it’s when I remember that I’m 25 that I remember that I’m not 17 anymore.

I’m not in high school, I’m not in college.  I have to be responsible.  I can’t play all the time. Nobody is around to take care of me.  I have to make good decisions. 

Actually, I was always responsible.  I rarely played.  And I have always made good decisions.  Perhaps it is in moments like these that the sadness I feel is more of a mourning – a mourning of the irresponsibility I didn’t permitted myself, the playtime I didn’t have, the independence I asserted, the bad choices I never allowed myself to make.

I can’t think of a concrete example that has spurred this feeling, but it has happened several times in the past couple weeks.   It’s kind of a small burden that sets itself upon me and says, “You’re 25, Jen.  You have responsibilities.  People look up to you.  You have to take care of yourself; others won’t take care of you.  You can have fun, be lighthearted for a moment, but life is serious now.” 

You’re a grown up.

My cute grandma is upwards of 75 years old.  Last spring, as she jumped onto the back of a moving golf cart, she rolled into me, laughing, and said, “Sometimes, I just pretend to be old.”  I will never forget this, and every time I think of it, I smile.  Let me be always young at heart.