Like diaries, without the malfunctioning locks and pink ribbon bookmarks. A recent one reads:
"Dear Jen: You're too young to be old. Love, Me."*
How right Me is. In the past, I've described myself to friends as, "A constant oscillation between a 10-year-old girl scout and an 80-year-old man who only drinks Earl Grey." The latter may or may not be consuming the former (starting with her cookies).
50% of all conversations I've had in the last year involve lamentation about how old we are. After which someone always says, "But we're not, really. We're not," followed by unconvincing nods and unsupportive thoughts. We never really feel our age, someone told me once (doff of the cap). I brushed it off at the time, but I increasingly find this to be true.There's just a lot of faking and waiting in vain for it to feel right.
The purpose of this series of poems is not to throw glitter balloons in your face and flaunt how devastatingly happy I am (because 1. I'm not and 2. glitter-filled balloons sound horrific). Rather, it serves as a self-reminder of what it's like to be nauseatingly young and carefree.**
*Yes, I write these things to myself. Because I sometimes think my life is a movie. You know you've done it, too.
** They were written when I teetered dangerously close to glitter-balloon territory.
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