Is it strange for a fifteen year old to think about the day she is 30 and mourn her teenage years? I’m doing some typical teenage stuff and then I suddenly start thinking about how I won’t be able to do this in fifteen years, or even in five. I suddenly start thinking about being a grown up and start resenting teenagers for their freedom—even though, I’m still in my prime teen years. I don’t think I would like to be 30. Being fifty, I think would be fun—I like the thought of me as a fifty year old eccentric spinster with rows upon rows of books and coffee brands and knitted sweaters-ooh, maybe I’d grow a mole (is that possible? Can you grow a mole?) And be known as the crazy witch-lady. Is it weird to just want to skip twenty years of my life?
Its why I never wanted to be a teacher even though I liked teaching—couldn’t bear to sit there in my frumpy blouse as kids go through the best years of their lives and I’m the one who has to go around grading their papers while they giggle and high five each other over secret crushes, perverted jokes and juvenile pranks. I would be stuck in the teachers’ lounge with my muffin while the high school kids are singing, and sliding in the hallways or having heartfelt talks as they walk around the field, like I do now. To think that I would have to be amongst these mini-humans going through this wonderful phase and not be able to experience it, but simply be to my role of the creepy observer. I think if I were to be a teacher—I would either be the strictest, most grumpiest of all—or be that one teacher who jokes around with the kids and who the kids go and talk to. My bet is on Grumpy.
It’s hard to imagine my current teachers as teens. And someday, teens are going to think that about me. Someday, I’m going to be the boring, crazy old lady who squeals over the Chilli Peppers and Fleetwood Mac and Scooby Do and has unhealthy amount of decorative plates with cats’ pictures on them.
It doesn’t help that I’m not exactly having the typical teen experience right now—yes, there is unnecessary, bothersome drama, but I don’t know. I think kids grow up faster nowadays. My mum says she used to play house even when she was in the 10th grade—used to dress up too until 8th grade.
I’ve never played dress up. My most girlish phase was when I was 8. I still had short hair—a “boy cut” and like most of my age, craved long, shiny, ‘flippy’ hair (I still do not how to toss my hair) So instead I would tie shawls and skirts to my head and prance around, shaking my head this way and that. I soon grew out of that—once my hair was allowed to grow, it was too curly and too bushy and I simply stopped caring. Anyway, I digress.
My point is, even though it’s several years away, I already feel washed out and boring and lame. At least, more boring and lame than I do on most days.
I don’t know how parents and teachers bear it. Surround themselves with kids and not be a teensy bit envious of them. I’m going to miss my angst filled rants—as an adult, all the misplaced anger and exaggerated sense of importance will be replaced with sensible shoes and fridge magnets.
I’m not even sixteen yet, and I’m already writing a eulogy for the teenage me. One day i will no longer be welcome at the kiddie table.