When I grow up…

Ever since I was little, I’ve hated getting older. Unlike most young ones who add even the most minimal fraction to their age—”I am 7 and 1/8th”—to show that age suggests maturity, my view’s always been backward. I’ve been stuck in a semi-Peter Pan complex for as long as I can remember. Besides turning 21, of course. That’s one birthday I definitely didn’t want to bypass.

But herein lies the dilemma: In education, age is often associated with ability. When you enter a classroom for the first time, you immediately size up a teacher to determine exactly how much you can get away with. If the teacher is: A.) Old B.) Wearing a hairstyle that is decades outdated C.) Wears an ankle length skirt or pantsuit with big buttons D.) Does not smile, you know that you should probably keep your mouth shut or suffer the consequences.

Fit in a few categories? You’ll do just fine. I score a solid 0 of the above (or so I think…). Gimme a heads-up if I need a hair appointment stat.

My Peter Pan complex has worked a bit, though in an atypical way: I may not be able to reduce my age, but I have stopped aging. I’m 22, and look the same as I did at 14. Unless I develop a Jack-esque disorder anytime soon, I’m going to be a high school teacher who looks younger than her students. Plus, I’m not looking into layered bangs and a blunt cut anytime soon, and would prefer to keep my shirt buttons pinkie-nail sized.

If only girls had it as simple as guys:  Grow a goatee, and you’ve gained yourself a few years.

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