Growing Down? 3/7/2001
I have to admit, the idea for this diary entry was not mine. I "borrowed" it from a fellow diarist whose diary is on my favorites list.
When I was in first grade, I used to love to cuddle with my mother at night. My sister would always refuse when my mother invited her to join us because Becca was a "big kid." Big kids didn’t cuddle with their mothers. I wished I was a big kid, like Becca, who had no interest in cuddling.
When I was in second grade I used to stare at Becca enviously, as she scribbled away on her math or science homework. I only had a ditto. The ditto should’ve taken me ten minutes to do, but I made it last a half hour, trying to appear busy doing work like a "big kid." I wished I was older and had real work.
In fifth grade I would watch Becca wistfully as she would get ready to go to a school dance. I would peek out the window as her date (and his mom) would pick up Becca. I sat in my room and wished I would grow up faster. I was always so frustrated because I felt like I would be "little" forever.
In ninth grade, Becca would tell me her sex and/or drinking stories. I would listen and silently wish I would get older faster. I wanted to stay out late at night and sneak around to have sex with my boyfriend. Being a senior sounded like such a fabulous thing!
Unfortunately, my wishes came true. When I’m upset, I feel retarded going into my mother’s room to cuddle with her, like I used to do when I was younger. (I’m eighteen, after all—-a big kid). Instead, I cry alone in my room, or to friends who have no idea what I’m going through or how to help me. I wish I had only a half hour of homework. When I was old enough to attend my school’s cheesy dances, I usually found myself being one of the only people out of my friends standing on the sidelines during a slow dance. Or, the music at the dances sucked. I usually found myself wishing I were at home, eating popcorn and watching a rented movie. Being a senior isn’t as great as I once though it was. Most of my friends are sexually active and I’ve always felt there’s been pressure for me to "do it." (Immature high school terminology is still alive and well).
My applications to college are being royally screwed up by my ghetto fabulous school and its half-witted staff. (Oh? We were SUPPOSED to send your senior grades?? AND a mid-year report? Hm, I don’t know how we overlooked that…) Well, maybe it’s because you have the IQ of a rock, lady…People are always asking me "So, what do you want to do with your life? What do you want to major in? Where are you going to college?" (Shrugs ). I find myself wishing, more often than not, of "growing down" to that first grader whose mother made her sandwiches every afternoon and cuddled
with her at night. My biggest worry was what color crayon I should use to color in the Easter Bunny on my ditto.
Obviously, it doesn’t get better. In college, I’ll look back and say, "Wow, my biggest worry was college applications." Later on, I’ll say, "Damn, in college, my biggest worry was how to make three beers last me through the week." (Just kidding). I wish I could take my previous wish back. I don’t want to be a "big kid anymore." It’s just too hard. Moral of the day (unoriginal as it might be): Be careful what you wish for.
Phobia for the Day: going to school- Didaskaleinophobia
Until my next ramble
Artist
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