In my mind, I am 19 years old. Forever. Smart, beautiful, effortlessly thin. Decisions are limited to: what should I wear (answer: tube top)? Should I make out with that bartender (answer: no but you will)? Will a degree in Medieval History open a ton of doors (answer: hysterical laughter)? Photographs from college preserve 19 year old me in all her idiotic, perfect glory.
But the tired-looking suburban mom-lawyer that looks back at me like in the mirror, like a POW staring out from behind a wire fence, is undeniably…. me.
What the fuck?
You’re only as young as you feel and all that shit but what if that feeling is keeping you from doing all the adult stuff, from being happy as an adult? What if rather than trying to feel young, you need to try to feel older? Can a girl who still calls herself a girl as she approaches 40 ever quiet the inner wildness?
So far, my inner 19 year old rages unchecked although I’ve developed ways to fool others into thinking that I am an actual real grown-up. Well, sometimes.
I’ve learned from years of flailing around. How to cook food with ingredients. How to dress like a boss without feeling like you’re wearing a costume. How to take the advantages adulthood gives you (there are some it turns out) and reshape them to your awesome true self.
Never surrender your true self, but let that self have a few nice suits.