A certain group of philosophers once posed a prophetic, legitimate question: “What’s my age again?” By philosophers, I mean Blink 182, my favorite obscenity-loving pop-punk band in fourth grade. At the age of nine, some of my favorite things included writing, annoying my sister, saving worms from impending doom on the driveway when it rained and eating cookies. I’ve come to a realization that, at 18 years old, not much has changed.
Branded with the unforgiving label of the law as an “adult”, packaged with the sparse, vague instructions of adolescent experience, and shipped off to college in a prim little package, I sometimes feel like a defective factory product of society who cannot progress chronologically. But who ever said always “acting your age” was progressive or beneficial?
It may be the impression that when students come to college, they are supposed to act older. But that conjures images of orthopedic soles, wrinkled mouths, stiff business suits and accountants. However, becoming older is merely a culmination of tender layers of years and experiences, stacked, not always so neatly, upon one another. Each piece is integral and uniquely suited for different situations. Hell, I cherish my ability to call upon innocent interests and child-like curiosity! Would I have bonded with so well with the guys in my dorm if I hadn’t engaged in almost daily napkin/utensil/food fights at Hinman, sang “Colors of the Wind” down Sheridan and did an interpretive dance down Sheridan returning from a lame frat party? The answer is no.
But be warned! Of course there is danger in merely exaggerating certain ages within the current one. Upon faced with the challenge to converse normally with an attractive male specimen and combat nervous laughter, sweating, or awkwardly placed sexual jokes, I am 13. Amidst the rows of bikini-clad, Heineken-laden people tanning on the Jersey shore, yearning to splash amongst the waves and dig my hands in the scolding sand to build soggy castles, I am five. Neither are attractive choices.
However, this seemingly immature behavior is almost less immature than many typical actions of my age group in various respects. It certainly has it’s downsides in terms of social approval; even those who find themselves at home eating a Ring Pop or climbing a tree are reluctant to admit the secret child hiding and winking from within them. But, riddle me this: Is it more mature to act my age and drink massive amounts of cheap beer for an excuse to make out with someone? Smoke some pot at a friend’s apartment? Drinking, eating, smoking, snorting, injecting all sorts of mind-altering substances typical of “older” people are obviously methods of escape. Their effects, to be carefree, happy, extroverted, or even hyper, all are reminiscent of childhood.
My own childhood desires linger beneath my skin and saturate my brain, itching and aching to be released with a vengeance. Sometimes it seems as if it’s a choice between obeying societal norms and actually having fun. But when the sun is bathing climbable thick-limbed trees bedecked with translucent green leaves, I am ecstatic to feel as if I’m nine. And if I have the time, maybe I’ll climb it in between hours of grueling lecture. From my cradle of rough bark and the bursting buds of spring in that tree, I see it glimmering from the eyes of those who pass. A love for cartoons, food fights, duck-duck-goose, and arts and crafts bubbles fervently beneath the skinny-jean- wearing, pot-smoking, hookup-having masses you see before your very eyes.