I’ve only been 22 for a few days and don’t feel much different from 21, which felt suspiciously reminiscent of 19 and 20, which were only a slight contrast against 17 and 18.
What makes a matured adult?
Settling on a job you don’t like to earn green paper with no true value? Trading in flavored malt beverages for bitter red wine only consumed with dinner, followed by 2 glasses of ice water and warm milk to get to sleep without fear of a headache? Doing away with illegal drugs and only getting high off prescription drugs when you hurt your back? Squat out a few tots and watch them grow and destroy your furniture?
Or maybe maturity is simply reaching a certain age. I still laugh at fart jokes just as hard as I did at the age of 5. Am I more or less mature because of it?
Everyone’s truth is different. So why are we all being pigeonholed into an identical concept of maturity?
The notso closet conspiracy theorist in me says that the very statement “Act your age” is our way of calling out behavior that deviates from the conditioned status quo, the cog in the big machine that’s slowing down production for the rest of us, as we try to reach a singular consciousness.
Or perhaps there’s a secret Life’s Little Book of Absolute Fact that I’ve yet to read.