The latest Dear Coke Talk made me think.
If a twenty two year old woman is boring and talks about trite and uninteresting things because of her age, and is boring her twenty-eight year old partner as a result, then what hope do I have at eighteen? Do I bore the people around me with trite, uninteresting things, without realising it? Is it so obvious that I am only eighteen years old, and at that, irritatingly so?
In hindsight, after having met a generation X English lecturer pushing thirty, there were moments in which I said things and he regarded me with a look that seemed to say, “oh dear, there’s your young age showing through again.”
This has started a downward spiral in which I recall moments that I believed I was impressing a person much older than I, but in reality was merely being regarded with endearment - and, perhaps, condescension.
It seems that, for the most part, I may appear far more mature than my age, but then I will say something like, “that’s soooo Post Modern!” and there’s my immaturity manifested.
Fuck it all, I’m going to play Tetris and watch The Simpsons and think the world revolves around my engorged Generation Y head.
After all, it takes time to go cold turkey on attractive male models and an addiction to Facebook.
Posted 6 months ago with NotesTags: Maturity
