The big two and two. Woohoo!
Turning 22 is super anticlimactic, isn’t it? You can already vote, drive, there isn’t a club that will restrict you access (if you’re a girl, anyway)… Rent stuff if you want…No milestones here, buddy.
22 is basically the universe’s way of saying, “Congratulations full blown adult, you’re not interesting anymore!”
I’m glad to be 22 though. In the couple of decades I’ve been alive I’ve had so much to be thankful for; more than electrifying relationships, more than the plentiful instances of we-must-have-known-each-other-in-another-life kind of friendships, and finding myself…. I’m more than grateful for that one especially.
It sounds silly, I know. Done and tried. Finding myself. What does that mean, you pretentious hippie you?!
Yes, it’s one of the biggest clichés ever, but for someone like me, someone who’s spent her entire life looking to others to define her, it’s one hell of a milestone.
I’ve lost so much as well. I’m sad and glad, however, both in equal measure, for it was something that had to happen, if I was ever to get here, to this place where me and I don’t mean lonely or pathetic.
Here where my presence alone is enough.
I’m comfortable with myself, like settling into a cozy old sofa at the end of a long day. Utterly at peace.
And I’m not saying my life is perfect, I’m not perfect either. I just feel good in my own skin; at ease with my own awareness. I now know what I want, what I don’t, and as Beyonce puts it, “what I won’t tolerate”.
FANTASTIC BEASTS AND WHERE TO FIND THEM
“She reminds me of you,” this from my sister as we’re introduced to the wizard cop’s sister (my memory, it fails me); a ditzy blonde with a knack for flirting. I, of course, can’t see it.
I’m different things to different people, I’ve learnt.
To my family, I’m an excitable lazy princess with a lot more men in her pocket than a conductor’s got change (lol I wish).
To my best friend, I’m a painfully shy, painfully short neurotic who can’t handle being spontaneous.
To a recent ex, I’m “too nice” (said with a disapproving frown).
And to my 4 year old cat, I’m a human shaped mattress.
For years, I found it close to impossible to reconcile how others saw me, and how I saw myself. As a teenager, it became deafeningly important to create a clear cut picture; something, I believed, that would help me know who I am, how to act… The very meaning of life, may be.
That’s not possible though, is it? Not for me, at least. I am not one thing, not like a character in a play; but the creation of far flung star dust.
I’m the stuff of dreams and poems. I’m made of soul and blood and demons in the sky. I’m beautiful and ugly, and wonderful and terrible and awesome and sad… And I’m 22.
I’ve opened a door and stepped into a field. A large empty field. And I can build and plant and nurture. Or I can lie down on the grass and soak in the sun.
I can do whatever I want; what a terrifyingly amazing fate.