Being Way Too Mature While Playing Pretty Pretty Princess

Now, I’ve never seen the Curious Case of Benjamin Button, but I’m quite sure that I would relate well to the whole GROWING UP BACKWARDS thing. Because, I truly believe I have. These past few weeks have consisted of massive brain dumps about past hangups and how to move forward in a healthy, kind of awesome, but really secretly amazing way. And, of course, the most difficult part of moving forward is examining what it is that’s been holding us back. Sometimes, what we need to see the most is hidden beneath what we think is the issue and all of a sudden we’re all, “Bro? Really? THIS is what I was hung up on? Shit. All right. LET’S MOVE THE HELL ON NOW. KAY THANKS BYE.”

And, my hang up as of late is the fact that I’ve done my growing up in some ass backwards type of way. Like, I was way too mature for my age when I was in third grade and, for some reason, I thought I was an adult and that meant I never had to make mistakes or rebel because I WAS A REFINED WOMAN. At age, what, eight? How old are you in third grade? WHY IS THIS NOT SOMETHING I KNOW? And, this is important, why? See, this is why I never get anything done. My brain is sitting here wondering how old I was in third grade, as if this is something dire and pressing I need to know. It’s not. AT ALL.

MOVE ON, JAMIE.

DON’T YOU DARE GOOGLE IT.

OMG, YOU’RE GOOGLING IT.

I Googled it. God, I’m sick. It’s age 7-8, at least that’s what Wikipedia says. Ok, now that’s out of the way, we can move on. Er, I can move on.

So, yes, third grade. My teachers pulled me aside and they were all, “Come in this tiny room filled with any board game you can ever think of and show us how smart you are, pretty little Jamie.” Shit, my teachers sound really creepy, don’t they? They didn’t really say that, you know. I was PARAPHRASING. Ok, I’m never going to finish this blog post at the rate I’m going. Stay focused, woman. My GOD.

They pulled me into this room, which was, what I considered to be Third Grade Heaven. As in, I could have died happy in that room, because there was Connect Four and Pretty Pretty Princess and AN ENTIRE WALL OF GAMES. And, they brought me in there to ask if I wanted to go into this special smart people program called GATE. And, I was all, “Bitch, please, of course I do” with a snap of fingers in a Z motion and kind of attitude-ily cocked my head. Then, my mom overruled me and said she didn’t want me to be “different” so I had to stay in normal person school.

And, this is when I think I became way too mature for my age. Because, I got a taste of SUCCESS, PEOPLE. I was in that room. That glorious room! I was special! They noticed! And, that ruined me. Because, it was from that point on that I decided I’d be all career-oriented. Yes, even at age eight, I was thinking about the books I’d write and the grocery stores I’d check at, which was one of my dream jobs for YEARS. YEARS. Still, to this day, when I was bagging my own groceries today at Trader Joe’s, I got a little giddy. Don’t ask me why. Something about that little beep sound when you scan an item, the produce codes, the crazy Tetris-style paper bagging. It gets me. I love it.

Seriously, this blog post is ridiculous, I know.

Anyways. Too mature for my age. Right.

Basically, I’ve, for as long as I can remember, have had a “good head on my shoulders.” I hardly ever rebelled, hardly ever found myself in sticky situations, and have the business and social skills of a professional. And, while these things are terribly valuable and I wouldn’t trade my morals, values, or pristine criminal record for anything, I still don’t know how to go about certain things. Like, falling stupidly in love. Or, running down the street crying over someone. Or, emotionally losing my shit. Or, letting my emotions take precedence over my logic. Or, problem-solving the hell out of a situation I can’t quite get out of.

Don’t get me wrong. I have done my fair share of things-one-shouldn’t-really-in-their-right-minds-do. But, sometimes I feel like my logic has become way too good at protecting me from the real life things. And, as backwards as it is, I look forward to getting my hands dirty, messing things up a bit, and being lost in the middle of the night with no headlights in sight. Because, if there is anything I know well, it’s that our experiences, terrible or awesome, define us for the rest of our lives. And, it’s about time I lose my shit, cry uncontrollably, let someone shatter my heart, make a fool of myself, and realize that, throughout all of it, I’ll come back and be all, “Bitch, please, I GOT THIS.”

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