The Coming of Age.
That’s what my mother had called it.
I think it was the age that I was supposed to be a grown-up. It was only yesterday that I’d said to a coworker that the older I got, the less I seemed to know. I thought when you reached this age you were suddenly transformed into an adult. At least, that was the idea I’d deluded myself into thinking as a child.
Youth had been the best time of my life. I’d been carefree and didn’t have to worry about bills, men or what to cook for dinner. Yep, sometimes I wished that I lived in Neverland like Peter Pan, the boy who never wanted to grow up.
There was no point in wishing though and at the age of twenty-one I knew I had to start stepping up; stepping up to what I wasn’t quite sure, but stepping up all the same.
For tonight though, I planned on getting shit-faced with my friends at my party.
I could always be a grown-up tomorrow.
Or the next day, or the next.