When I was younger, I was kind of a little on the mouthy side. One of my favorite rant topics was what I would do when I got older. I was going to stay out as late as I wanted, do what I wanted, and all of that other malarkey. I was so cute… and stupid. I simply could not wait to grow up and be on my own. What the heck was I thinking? Who in her right mind would want to give up being irresponsible?
Growing up means there is no magic refrigerator that refills itself for free on Saturday mornings. The crappy fridge I have gets filled by me on Sundays. I have to make the list, shop, pay, schlep it in the house, put it away. There is no one asking me if I want pancakes or French toast for breakfast. I announce that I would like pancakes for breakfast, but when I get out of the shower, there are no fresh, hot pancakes waiting for me. Why? Because Guinness doesn’t take orders, and I didn’t buy the stuff at the store on Sunday. Even if I did buy the ingredients, after my shower, there is barely time to make a whole wheat toast, peanut butter, and banana sandwich; down my allergy and supplement cocktail and get myself dressed and out the door.
What has happened to make me so angry with my self-absorbed past? I wake up in the middle of the night, which is now midnight because I am so tired I go to bed before 9, drenched in sweat. The only thing that makes this less traumatizing is my dearest friend from high school has admitted she wakes up in a pool of gross, too (don’t worry, “J,” I didn’t reveal your name). Thank goodness I’m not the only one. And since I’m oversharing the sweating like I just finished running five miles in July thing, I’ll share that I have to buy zit cream along with my wrinkle cream. I worry about sunscreen. I make sure I’m consuming enough fiber and yogurt each day, so I eat something called overnight oatmeal. This is surprisingly delicious, so I won’t put it in the complaint column even though it resembles cat food. I am prone to digression. Seriously? I whined about wanting this? I need to go back in time and smack myself in the face.
How am I going to accomplish this, given my weak math skills? I have convinced another friend, let’s call him “A,” to build a time machine. Our diabolical plan is to sell it to my seniors so they can go back in time, make better decisions and pass their classes. The profits from our little endeavor will allow me to live in a beachy location while being a philanthropist. I’m not sure what his plans are because this is all about me. After we experiment with the seniors to make sure the time travelers don’t come back inside out or something catastrophically awful, I’ll go back to my 13-year-old self and smack her. Hard. I’ll tell her to quit complaining because being a grown-up means paying your own way, looking out for someone other than yourself, and making sure the fridge is filled because someone I love more than myself else needs me to do it, and, best of all, laughing at your stupid younger self.
I will do all of this, but she won’t listen because she knows everything.