Sometimes I just crave adults. I realize that I am now twenty, which makes that last sentence a little suspect, but true nonetheless. I certainly don’t feel twenty. Twenty(s) is when people get married. They start being mature. They get jobs. They talk about politics.
Friends, I still blow bubbles regularly. I’m about a hundred times more likely to read a food blog than a political article. And a few nights ago, when I couldn’t sleep, I spent a half hour coming up with ten reasons why unicorns could totally be real.
Let’s not be hasty in our application of the term “adult,” huh?
Anyway, as much as I adore being at college, being surrounded by people who are in this thing they call the prime of our life, I sometimes feel like walking up to my teachers and begging them to talk to me. Not about essays, or tests, or anything that has anything to do with whatever it is I study in their class.
No, I don’t want help with the assignment. I want wisdom. I want someone to tell me a story that comes from experience. Preferably someone who has had more than twenty years of experience. I want my English teachers to show me things they wrote when they were my age, and invite me over for dinner. I want them to tell me about their lives and ask me about mine. I want to go up to them and say, “If you knew me, and knew what was going on with me right now, not only would you not assign this essay, you’d take me out for ice cream and lend me a few really good books.”
But I don’t. I don’t annoy my teachers with my craving for the influence of people—but especially women—older and wiser than me. And thus far I haven’t gone in to talk to any of the school councilors. This is partly because I don’t think craving adult supervision qualifies as therapy worthy, and partly because if it does, I don’t really want to know about it.
So instead I blow bubbles, read food blogs, and wonder about unicorns.
I don’t need therapy.