Tuesday, May 7, 2013

2 & 5

There's something I realized while turning twenty-five:
I've lived about a fourth of my life
and that's if I estimate generously,
but it is honestly a quarter of a century.
At five more than twenty and five less than thirty
I don't think I'm allowed to consider myself,
anything less than an adult.

But it's not my fault that I don't.
Because I'm not anything like I thought I'd be:
I'm no Glamazonian Barbie.
And don't know why
I thought I'd grow up to wear a dress suit and stilettos and drive a jeep.

But part of it lies in the fact that
since the age five or three or whenever it is that one develops the capacity
to comprehend the nature of life and death and the qualities of grown-up-ness,
one is exposed to more or less the mores of society at large
or the values of whoever was in charge
and learns the concept of adulthood
and sexuality
and how they are intrinsically tied.

It's not that I am approaching this situation
with any kind of a feminist connotation
or saying that society should redefine the idealization of female beauty
to be something other than tall and leggy
with curvy hips, and luscious lips, and perky tits, because it's
as far as I'm concerned merely biology.

starting at that age of six or so
when it's primarily to school you go
And the establishment spouts cliched things like "You can grow
to be whatever you want to be"
it's not like they consider seriously
the trusting and impressionable nature of being young.

And as we all are bombarded with the idea that we can be
whatever we wanted to be
and the conceptual ideals of expectations of what we should be
is it any wonder why,
I wanted to be a princess, and little Timmy wanted to be a t-rex?

How can people choose to confuse the concepts of infinity and all inclusivity
and most importantly mutual exclusivitiy?
After all, just because there are an infinite number of possibilities
it doesn't mean that that set includes those that you would possibly choose.
E.g. an infinite set of even numbers while immeasurably broad will never contain a number odd,
and if one certain odd selection turns out to be without question
the choice to become a princess
you're out of luck if you're dealt an infinite set of evenness.

But I digress.

So while I wanted to be a princess and little Timmy a t-rex
the adults around us laughed and thought it endearing
to see our dreams not in accordance with reality.
And so you learn as you age that a lot of things adults have said are outright lies
with good intent
or at best mis-communicated mis-information.

It's then that a little part of you dies.

So becoming an adult isn't about growing up but dying,
little by little every part of your fading
until the last day when there's nothing left.
As funny as it is, I still feel like I'm waiting
for adulthood to strike with more obvious signs.
Without them I feel lacking.
Without a physical demarcation
I get a sense that I am slacking.

I don't really remember what it's like not being this shape or this height.
Well perhaps there was a modest redistribution of fat
and repressed memories concerning the exact condition of my skin.
But if I were to wake up tomorrow and to find
I'm five inches taller and my chest significantly fuller
I would say, "Why, yes, now I have grown up, and I am an adult.
Let me now put on my dress suit and hop in my jeep with stilettos on my feet
and attend to my career as an elite
romance novelist/singer-songwriter/rapper/hip-hop dancer/
locomotive engineer/
a butcher, a baker, a candlestick-maker."

So in conclusion, I'm in confusion,
because with my worldview permanently set at five foot two,
maybe, sometimes, plus a few depending on the type of shoe,
how am I to determine
whether or not I'm all grown up
if I haven't become what I wanted to be
and can't even fill up a decent cup?

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