I remember when I thought age 1o was ancient. I was 9, and, like always, dreading adding a year to my age. I felt like 10 made me a grown up, which I certainly did not want to be. 10 years old meant that I was in the same 10-year span as 19 year olds, who were practically Senior Citizens. In only a few years, I’d be 13. A teenager. I had only heard people mention teenagers in negative ways (ugh, those “teenagers” and their music; those “teenagers” and their belly button rings; those boy-crazy “teenagers”).
I now realize, of course, that those characteristics of “teenagers” are only negative depending on the speaker. Teenage music and belly-button rings aren’t bad—Good music did not, in fact, stop being made in the 60s and some piercings are actually pretty cool (Read: Some). Plus, few girls aren’t boy crazy at some point in their lives. Why is it so bad to be boy-crazy as a teenager? I’d prefer not to be a seventy-year old spinster, thank you very much.
Lately, though, my views on age are starting to change. Slightly. I still dread getting a year older, but somehow now think of my age as young. Partially, this is due to the fact that I’m the youngest of all the graduate students.
But it’s more than that. I’m 22. That’s halfway to 44, sure. But I’ve already done so much during my 22 years that I can’t help but think how much more there is to come in the next 20, 30, 40…hopefully 80 or 90! years. Each year feels a little longer, now, but in a good way. I’m excited for the future, not anxious about aging.