I’m scared. Clenching my arse cheeks, want to call my mum kinda scared. How can I be 20? How can the girl who still can’t bake sweet cupcakes; be entering her twenties.
Being 20 doesn’t necessarily frighten me, it is the phrase: ‘in my twenties,’ that scares the shit out of me.
I feel like there’s a lot of pressure being 20. I haven’t been able to shake the: ‘kettle on a hob,’ feeling for months now. I’ve never really bowed to societal pressure before, yet I suddenly feel myself needing a budgeting planner and an ISA because I’m entering my twenties. The desperate need for an incredible, life-affirming and stable career. The conversation of kids and marriage, that quite frankly turns my stomach. And of course, the realisation that perhaps finally now you really are too old for all the things you took for granted as a kid. Trick or treating, the trampoline, climbing frames, crying in public and bike stabilisers.
Growing up has not been the fun-filled, maxi sized bag of treats, I thought it would be as a kid. Driving terrifies me, pushing prams is not something you can only do for an hour at the park, and those high heels of your mothers you so badly wanted to wear are fucking uncomfortable. In fact, that pair of black heels is the image of adulthood. Looks good, looks like it’ll get you somewhere spectacular, looks great with a little black dress. However, the metaphor is in the heel. The uncomfortable, scratchy back that slices your Achilles like a potato peeler; with a plastic heel that breaks on the first cobble it meets, and snaps in the rain. That is adulthood.
Childhood was wearing the same dirty clothes for days, never brushing my hair and living in my brother’s sports hand-me-downs. It was playing for hours with my fairies, reading books I stole from my Grandma under my bed and watching classic 80s films. Walking miles with my family, dancing for hours in my bedroom and grazing my knees on the gravel. My childhood was four sprained ankles, three allergic reactions, two dislocated elbows and one knocked out front tooth in Anglesey. It was a lot of time in hospital with equal time outdoors. Travelling to France, waking up to the sound of old comedians telling expired sexist jokes. Searching through bushes for doc leaves to treat nettle stings. Public bathrooms drowning in hairspray at cheerleading competitions.
Now it is different. There’s always that low-level hum of anxiety. There are worries and decisions. Responsibilities and consequences. There are hangovers, hormones and haircuts to worry about. Friendships, fuck boys and facelifts to think about. Global warming, gambling and gangsters to worry about.
I’m out of breath going up the stairs, I think twice about rolling down the hill for the nausea. There’s blood streaming out my vagina once a month, and an equal number of tears from my eyes around that time. There are decisions to be made about bank accounts and bargains to be had on insurance deals. Bum bags to be bought for practical reasons (absolutely not fashionable ones) to stop pickpocketers on holiday. Early nights to prevent the headache the following morning and a packet of paracetamol in every coat pocket ‘just in case someone needs it.’ I can’t buy a pair of fucking shoes without considering whether they’ll take me through to next winter or not.
I don’t know when I became this adult! This thing. This monster. This monster who keeps a purse full of change in her car for car parking. When did it get this bad? This sad? This practical? Huh? Not that long ago, I learnt the hard way to always have a packet of tissues handy in case a bird shits on you. Not that long ago, was I hobbling through Manchester on my first day of work experience, with the heel of my cheap cowboy boot in my sweaty hands wishing I’d invested in a proper pair. Not that long ago was I sitting in a park playing rounders with a tennis racket all day because I had nothing else to do. Nowhere to go, no place to be, no responsibilities. Nada but time and fresh air.
I almost hate this person who acts sensibly. Who lives so neatly and quietly inside of me, virtually untraceable. She fits inside of me without fuss. She’s quiet and abiding. Kind and realistic. She makes me sick.
She’s the one that’s turning 20. The rest of me is still a kid. The rest of me still gets excited about leaving a mince pie out for Santa. The rest of me still believes in fairies and magic. The rest of me wants to wear unpractical boots that won’t last the winter for the fun of it.
It is the rest of me that you see and meet and smile at. The rest of me that is docile and figuring out still what the hell I am doing and what her place is in this terrifying, yet spectacular world. Which is why this does not end in me finally being comforted at the idea of turning 20. Absolutely not. I am still shitting myself. I would still rather repeatedly poke myself in the eye than turn 20.
But I am comforted at the small things I still believe in. The magic that I keep inside my heart. The strength of a child that I carry through each day. The fear of the dark that stops me sleeping. These small, innocent, childlike things that keep me smiling and young and hopeful. The shyness I still have, the toys I still love, the dad jokes I will always treasure: all childlike sentiments making my adult heart burst. I may be turning 20 (much to my disgust), but I will always be a kid. My mum and dad’s baby girl, as they remind me daily.
I have been on this Earth for 10 million minutes, but I have been a kid for 20 years.
Happy Birthday kid. X