Peter Pan

Writing came a lot easier when I was younger. I don't exactly know why, or if something inside me has chemically changed to make the flow from mind to paper so much more painful, but whatever is different seems to be set in stone. I can't just sit down and pen out a rantacular monologue filled with the ever-so-high highs and never-been-so-low lows of early adolescence. In fact, I can barely sit still long enough to find a pen anymore.

My brain has turned into one of those machines that operates to survive and do so with the greatest success, never mind the heart's desires. I think some people would refer to this as the act of "growing up." Ugh. Just typing those words hurts. I never asked for an adult brain, the kind that can be enjoying a beautiful moment, but still be thinking about what I still need to clean before bed, or how I'm going to afford that new sweater I want. I have officially gone over to the other side.

From the time that I was very small, I have always likened myself to Peter Pan. He never had to grow up. One of my favourite people on the planet passed away several years ago, and I'm so glad to say that she never lost her childlike attitude. At the incredibly old age of 5,223 (give or take a few), she was still able to giggle about boys with me and enjoy gummy bears and get lost driving from McDonald's to my house. Occasionally I've caught myself wishing she could have been around to see me grow up, but that's lying to myself on so many levels. I went through a space in my life that would have destroyed our friendship if she'd been around to see it, and in turn destroyed me. The only good part about that time in my life was what I learned, and that she didn't have to be humiliated by the person I became. Part of me will also never grow up; I determined that a long time ago and don't plan on changing my mind. And then, the hardest one: what if I somehow outgrew her? Grew up to the point where we could no longer relate because I became an obnoxious, self-serving adult who was above it all and could not have cared less for the simple joy of running down the pier at midnight in the dead of winter with no jackets on? Shoot me now.

I want a wheelchair with spinners. I want to giggle about boys until my face gets stuck that way. I'd like a massive box of chocolate to be open in every room of my house until the day I die. And I never want to stop relating to people who are younger than me.

Where is the joy in growing up? Please don't confuse this with growing older. I think that aging is a beautiful thing and, if done with grace, is the marking of a life well lived. What I'm talking about is the notion that getting old means putting away childish things. I love sticking my hand out the car window while I drive, and laughing at Napoleon Dynamite, and singing obnoxiously along with 90's boy bands. I don't want to lose that part of myself. I'd hate to be lying there dying and all I can think about is if there are dirty dishes, while everyone I know stands around me thinking what an old cow I am. I want to go out exploding into laughter! Popping a lung because Cyrius was too funny to deny. I don't want to be regretting that I spent my last weeks, months, years making sure life was being lived "properly" or "as expected" or "respectably," while the whole time I was wasting away the last precious moments of life.

So I just got way too serious again. What happened to light and cheery blogging before going to bed too late (must be up in less than 7 hours)?

Writer's block seems to have eluded me again. I try and try, but the more I talk about how I can't write anymore, the more I write. Maybe it's just different. Maybe I'm different. As long as it's just because I'm old now, not grown up.