My birthday was on Monday. So, I baked cookies.
Ten years ago, I turned 16.
I was in a horrible mood that day, because once again, my reality was colliding with my ( yet again, wildly unrealistic) expectations. I bought into the myth of the ” sweet sixteenth”. I had it in my mind that I was supposed to have, you know, the car, the boy, the kiss. I hadn’t even learned to drive yet.
Yet, there I was, disappointed that I didn’t have an extravagant party, that I didn’t have the large group of friends partying at my parents’ expense and that there wasn’t going to be a kiss at the end of the night.
Ten years have passed, and here we are.
I used to hate growing up because I believed that as we grow older, we slowly lose who we are. I believed that, as responsibilities, routine and monotony replace the freedom and enthusiasm of childhood, life slowly loses meaning and joy.
It wasn’t until recently that I found out that my assumptions weren’t entirely accurate. I realized that as I grow older, I’m merely adding interests to my already existing list. I can stroll through the aisles of Target comparing the value per cost of various kitchen utensils while still cultivating a healthy interest (read: love) in graphic novels and YA novels.
Ten years ago, I thought about the awesome things that didn’t happen. Today, I think about the horrible things that didn’t happen. I spent last year in a hospital room, watching Willy Wonka with my dad. Me, still in my work clothes. Him, in a hospital gown.
This year, no one was in a hospital gown. Win!
Moral of the story: Growing older can make us more interesting people to be around.
*Real moral of the story: Cookies make everything better 😉