Simone

On November 14, 2015, at 2:12 PM, I became 17 years old.

I am 17 years old. I am 17 years old. I am 17 years old.

I keep repeating this phrase to myself. Its very odd.

It’s odd because 17 is so much bigger than 16. I can’t think of an age transition I’ve experienced as drastic as this one. 6 to 7 was a stepping stone. 12 to 13 allowed me to relate to a new demographic. But 16 to 17? 16 sounds like schoolgirl crushes, and bubblegum, and begging my mom to let me go to a concert with friends. 17 sounds like anguish, and freedom, and decisions, and all things adult. It sounds like rage, and sadness, and responsibility. It sounds like maturity. Yikes.

17 has the potential to change the course of your life. It happened to Matthew Perry, and then he had to turn into Zac Efron so he could be 17 again, and re-change the course of his life.

17 means only two more years of being a teenager. And 17 means only one more year of childhood, because 17 is one away from 18. And 18 is voting, and a changed legal status, and college, and the ability to buy a house. 18 means “I’m an adult!” can be used in argument with parents because 18 means, you’re actually, kind of, an adult.

17 is serious in and of itself, because R-rated movies. No more sketchy diversions in movie theaters so I can see 21 or 22 Jump Street despite the MPAA thinking I can’t handle handle penis jokes. 23 Jump Street, here I come. Legally.

I find myself watching “TRY TO WATCH WITHOUT LAUGHING—100 PERCENT IMPOSSIBLE” YouTube videos, and NOT laughing. I find myself fantasizing about the interior design of my future apartments. I no longer find myself intrigued by monkey bars and cash registers. I was compelled to try a crossword puzzle this weekend.

I don’t feel any different, but I know things are changing.

I am getting old. ♦