Um.  I’m almost twenty.  I think reaching this age is supposed to be some kind of an epoch in people’s lives, although I’m not sure why.  But it’s true, I’ve survived two decades of life.  (That sounded ancientish.)

                When we were kids, we always thought of twenty-year olds as people that were of an age that was way too exciting for us to ever, ever reach.  Except in dreams, dreams where we had twenty-five boyfriends, a castle in Spain, innumerable sports cars, and regular luncheons with the queen.  But that stage of thirteen-year-old dreams is gone, of course, so I don’t actually want those things.  Except maybe the castle in Spain, because I’d imaginified a pretty sweet castle.  And one leeetle sports car.  Just one?  Please?  Okay, whatever.

  Anyways.  I think the Experience one is supposed to have when one turns twenty is the one my parents keep mentioning to me.  According to all the ancient fairytales, twenty is the magic age when one miraculously becomes Mature and Acts Responsibly...or at least begins working towards that.  But we don’t live in ancient fairytale world anymore.  If we did, I’d have my castle in Spain and...well, maybe not a sports car, but at least a really cool horse and carriage.  And right now instead of typing this, I’d be lying in the sun in Spain.  The fact that I’m instead shivering in the snow proves that nowadays is different.  The mature thing doesn’t apply anymore.  I mean, duh: back then they had magicians and wizards and Gandalfs and Merlins.  It’s not fair to expect us to do it all on our own.

  Then again, life isn’t fair.  That’s one thing I’ve managed to learn.  Actually, there are several things I’ve managed to learn in life.  The other day a friend and I decided to write down a list, and I came up with lotsa random ones.

  Boredom is deadly.  Really nice write-with-able pens are hard to find.  Watching campfires is hypnotic.  The likeable people are the ones who are always interested in everyone else.  The hardest thing isn’t saying “I’m sorry,” it’s keeping yourself from qualifying the “I’m sorry” with a “but I just...”  Overanalyzing things is a waste of time; they’ll work themselves out.  Smiling at complete strangers can turn their day around.  Pajamas are so much cozier when they don't match.  When it’s snowing, everyone becomes friendly.  Stores with cutesy names are usually boring.  Lovable people are the ones who aren’t perfect and know it.  Chocolate ice cream tastes best when you eat it while watching a sunset.  The carefully planned out things aren’t nearly as fun as the things that just happen.  Doing random acts of kindness can be incredibly fun.  And bright colours make everyone happy. 

  But back to the topic at hand: I’m now actually expected to be Mature.  That word is very subjective; dictionary definitions of it might apply to wines and cheeses.  But not people.  Because everyone is different, and that’s the wonderfully fantastaciously amazing thing about life.  Variety.  Like my little brother said the other day, “Wouldn’t it be so boring if everyone in the world was purple?”  (He feels a unique freedom in expressing random thoughts to me, because he knows that not only will I listen, I will expand the thought to mammoth ridiculous proportions until it becomes a nonsense story.  I think my ability to relate to five-year olds points to my General Immaturity.  But it sounds better if I call it Eternal Youth.)

  So for me, I think being Mature means many things.  It means that I should no longer get annoyed at toothpaste caps that disappear, along with all my pens and pencils, to The Realm of Missing Things.  I should stop doing impromptu dances in stores when a song I know comes over the sound system, particularly while trying on sunglasses.  (The combination has been known to overcome several people.) I would have to fall out of love with comfy blue jeans because comfy blue jeans are not sophisticated, and a certain degree of sophistication is required.  And reading for hours, getting completely lost in a different world, is definitely not a Mature thing to do.

  It’s incredibly time-consuming, but hanging up my clothes instead of tossing them across the chair in my room would probably be a must.  I should realize that lying on the grass staring at the blue blue sky for half an hour is a pointless occupation.  My tendency to do randomly impulsive things should be curbed, which would automatically delete my habit of lying down in the middle of the road at night just for fun.  Humming random songs all the time because I’m happyfull is probably juvenile, too.  I should no longer imaginify random stories about people I pass on the street or interesting buildings I see, and above all, I should never tell these stories to others.  I should stop my habit of spontaneously dropping everything and going for a long night drive, listening to music and soaking in the sad beautifulness of city lights.  And I should try to go to sleep before midnight at least once a week.

  I’d have to realize that making up words is an activity primarily for kids under five, figure out that loving people hurts sometimes and shut myself up a bit more, and never spend hours doing nothing except lying at the beach listening to music.

                But mostly, I’d have to start focusing on The Bigger Picture, not on the little things.  It must be more Mature to think about the cost of living and the Kyoto treaty and the price of gas and world peace than to just notice the insignificant stuff.  Stuff like the yummy smell of vanilla lotion, that freshly tingly feeling after a nice hot shower, the shocked way crocuses stare at the sky.  The amazed expression on the face of a dad with a newborn baby, the way an eagle’s wings span the rays of sunlight in the sky.  The homeless man holding a kid and laughing with a wrinkled face and gapped teeth, as if he didn’t have a care in the world even though he was sitting on the street wearing ripped clothes.  The cashier who smiles a real smile at everyone no matter how badly her day is going, the look of buttercups in the sunlight, the way the wind grabs my hair, the face of a teenage junkie who stares at everyone passing without even seeing them.  The smell of coffee, the wonderful feeling of waking up late in the morning with sunshine sleeping on your face, the taste of chocolate, the crunch of fallen leaves, the sight of two people completely in love, and how contagious laughter is.  Loving life because I’m alive and there’s so much future stretching out way in front of me and there’s so many people to love and so many things to laugh at.

                Yeah.  If being twenty means being Mature, and being Mature means giving up everything I love about life, then I’ll stay nineteen forever.  Who said Eternal Youth was a bad thing?