As far as I can remember, I couldn't wait to grow up. That's probably something I share with all the kids in the world. I would walk in my mother's high heels at the age of four, destroy her makeup and make a clown out of myself when she wouldn't be looking. I would pretend I spoke English and speak in an imaginary language to myself. The world of adults always seemed so appealing and I was counting the days - or years - until I would grow big and be an adult myself.
Twenty-something years later, here I am. Well, one might argue about being big - just the other day I realised that all this time I've been secretly hoping I would get a few more centimeters, but apparently at the age of 25 you've reached your final height. Bummer! I'm not feeling that adult either, but this number is scarily high (truth to be told, I'm actually closer to my 26th birthday than I am to the 25th) and I guess 25-year-olds ARE adults. Even those who are still studying. Even when their income is a scholarship, and not a salary for something they do. Because they don't have a job.
I'm not regretting this, though. This wasn't supposed to be a post about how there is time for being responsible and how childhood should be enjoyed. I did enjoy, but I love this much more! Ok, maybe I'm not a member of the real world yet, because I don't work, but still, the majority of time I decide for myself and it feels just great. Not that mum doesn't know best, of course. She does and always will.
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