Hello.
My name is Sarah. I'm 20 years old, and struggling with the idea of actually becoming an adult in 2 weeks time. Yes you heard me. An adult. So what better way to cope with my pre-adult life crisis than submerging myself into the self-indulgent world of blogging? It's the virtual equivelant of locking your doors, coccooning yourself in your little fortress made of duvet and pillows, and ignoring the people knocking at your door trying to talk to you about religion.
"Hello, we've come to talk to you about
"..."
"It's really quite fun we assure you."
"I'm not in, please go away."
"Yes you are, we can hear you playing Beautiful Katamari."
That tends to be how I cope with most of my problems, which is obviously very grown up and responsible of me. I ignore them, and do something more fun. The thing is, even my more fun things are childish. For example, I was stressed about coming back to Paris last Sunday, and leaving my massive, loving family for another two months. How did I get around this problem? By ignoring it, play-fighting with my 18 year-old brother and hitting him in the face with a double sausage and egg McMuffin. I cannot stress how cathartic the slapping sound of sausage patties against your brother's face is. There. Problem
The other thing I tend to do is baking. Now, hear me out, even though that is a little bit more sophisticated, it's still childish. Do you remember when you'd be sitting on the counter in the Kitchen, "helping," your parent or grandparent making some fairy cakes, and in reality you'd just be eating all the mixture and stirring the mixture violently so that all the flour and liquid went everywere? Well I still do that, only I'm older now. My apron doesn't fit me, so my parents always come back to find me in the midst of what can only be described as a flour strewn dishevelled midden of a kitchen, bits of mixture clinging to my hair, big greasy smears accross my face and with a massive grin on my face, thrusting towards them a mess of cake and icing that for some reason I'm insanely proud of.
These are just two of the reasons why I can't correlate the idea of being an adult with myself. In my head, I'm still making pillow forts out of the cushions from the couch, smearing paint onto paper (and all the surrounding surfaces,) staying up late and watching TV because it makes me feel like I'm living on the edge (Haha! You can't tell me to go to bed if I'm in France! Who's laughing now, eh?). I'm still putting on slightly angsty teenage albums and emphatically nodding along with them.
But I know I have to grow up sometime, and everyone around me already is. Some of my friends have had gorgeous children, and are able to look after both themselves and their child whilst still remaining the amazingly interesting person they were before, even with all the newly added responsibilty and stress. Others are in the last years of their degree, and prepping up to go out into the big wide world of employment. Others already have already got good jobs, moving out from their parents' houses and being their own, individual person.
Me? I'm in Paris, and it feels a bit like Wonderland. I'm wandering beside the Seine as if I were Alice in the Queen of Heart's gardens. The beautiful streets and areas lull me into a dreamlike state where I'm spending day in, day out, waltzing back and to to work and my room. Others may have faced the precipice of becoming an adult head-on, but I'm just wandering away by the cliff-face, knowing fully well that at some point I'm going fall into the void and have to be an adult, but being blissfully unaware of when, and refusing to pay attention to it.
They say when life gives you lemons, you should make lemonade. Well I say make a tarte au citron meringuée, snuggle up in your bed, stuff your face and forget about it.
