I really don’t. In exactly seven weeks I’m going to turn eighteen, and although I’ll be happy because it means I’ll be legal for pretty much everything (except over-21 bars), I’m also scared. Scared of finally having to be mature.
Those of you that know me will probably think, what the heck is she rambling about, she’s pretty mature already. Well, alright, I suppose I am, at times. But at other times I’m like a small child, laughing hysterically over the silliest things and making somewhat inappropriate comments. And it’s the fear that I’m not going to be like this any more that scares me.
Yes, I know age is just a number. But when you’re an adult, you’re expected to be just that little bit more responsible, and I don’t want that responsibility just yet. I don’t think I’m ready for it.
I don’t even know how I’m going to celebrate my eighteenth. I’m going out for a meal, I’ve worked that much out, but now I’m browsing the internet to work out where. It’s a tough decision. Everywhere suddenly seems so darn expensive.
In a couple of months, I’ll read back over this and think, what was I worried about? I probably won’t have changed. I think it’s just the fact that out of my group of friends, I’m the oldest, albeit by six days, and until now, I haven’t really cared. But I’m going to be the oldie, an adult where all my friends are not, and as much as I’m looking forward to my birthday, it’s the first time I’m wishing it to stay in the distance for as long as possible.