Mental ages and cages.

It’s strange. I was sitting in a cab in Saigon the other day when I looked down at my legs. I had never really noticed how long my legs had gotten. Not proportion-wise, but—for lack of better words—physically? I mean, I guess the femur is the longest bone in the body, and I am a full 10cm taller than the average American girl my age, but still!

This may sound deranged, but I had never felt as eighteen as I did at that moment. I don’t know why exactly? It sure wasn’t the travelling alone part, and neither was it the being in Saigon part—I had done both plenty of times, separately and concurrently.

My legs(?) for reference.

I have mentioned before that I hate the age of eighteen. It carries sexual and mental connotations that I’m not exactly eager to associate with. Yet somehow, that day I felt okay with being this age. One could say proud, almost.

Of being at the cusp of adulthood, of having so much free will and freedom, no matter how feigned.

I guess it could be that a part of me resented the age because eighteen officially marked the death of my childhood, but to be honest, I hadn’t felt like a child ever since I was ten.

I think I yearned more for my formative years as a thirteen-year-old than as of late. In a few years, I think I will reach my true form, as right now I kind of feel like a twenty-something trapped in an adolescent body, and I feel like I have been this way for a while. So if I wasn’t so grim about my future, I think I may actually like being old after all. :)