sunglasses: BP; "choker"; ribbon from Michael's; top: Net;
skirt: H&M; bag: Esprit; shoes: Converse
Eighteen. An age that bears a lot of weight—along with sixteen and twenty one. However, unlike sixteen, eighteen is not pink banners and pop music blaring from the speakers of the community center’s rec room. Eighteen carries, I suppose, a sense of maturity—but not in the way twenty one does. Twenty one is shots all around, an age where Mom and Dad are no longer the monarchs of your life, adulthood, independence. Eighteen is something else. Eighteen is special.
When people sing about being eighteen, their tones convey nostalgia: longing for a time of golden afternoons with friends, freedom from reality, youth in its purest form. Their voices reminisce about torn jeans, cold drinks, and endless laughter. Their words depict fluttering hearts, secure embraces, first loves. Eighteen is picturesque.
Eighteen is overhyped.
Sure, I can ask my mom for the car and drive out to lunch with my friends, but it’s nothing like the books, movies, or music videos. For one thing, most of my friends are too self-conscious to sing along with the radio, and even though I choose to sing along anyway, I can’t sing at the top of my lungs while paying attention to the road. If I want to sing and not crash the car, I have to settle for a controlled volume. And don’t get me started with rolling the windows down. In Southern California, unless you want to let out all the AC and melt, you keep those windows shut. Maybe you can roll them down at night, but even then you have the wind slapping you in the face—which is extremely distracting, especially while I drive. Not to mention, driving at night with the windows down—is no one else thinking about a demon hand reaching in to tickle their ears? Because I am.
Eighteen and still afraid of monsters, ha.
I will admit that any conjectures I form about being eighteen are somewhat premature. I still have about ten months of being eighteen, and seeing as most of those months will be spent at university, I’m sure a lot will happen. Maybe I’ll make an appearance at a few parties. Maybe I’ll meet some life-changing people. Maybe I’ll fall in love.
Eighteen has endless possibilities.
Before my next birthday, I could go on a crazy adventure. Imagine: it’s Friday night, and boring old me has a handful of new university friends with heads full of ideas more insane than my own. A group of college kids, looking effortlessly cool, taking on a city full of bright lights, flaunting their youth. We saunter into a restaurant full of famous Instagrammers wearing sunglasses at night—at night—and fill the place with our infectious laughter. Okay, this is going to sound lame, but I don’t know what else to add to my crazy adventure because I’ve never been on one. You get the gist. It’ll be cool.
Within a year, I could meet my first love. I’m on campus, sitting under a sassy tree (it’s sassy because it’s throwing shade, heh). Glancing up, I lock eyes with him. He smiles, and I instantly notice how every part of him is pretty much perfect. We both stand up and awkwardly walk towards each other—our first conversation. Coincidentally, we love all the same things, start talking, and don’t notice when the sun goes down. Being the gentleman he is, he offers to walk me back to my room, and we chat the entire way back. Soon, we reluctantly realize that he has to return to his own dorm. He turns to leave, but not before asking me to marry him. Wait. I think I skipped a few steps.
Eighteen is starting to sound pretty good.
Sure, living on my own means taking responsibility for myself and falling in love means allowing my heart to be broken, but I think I’m ready to finally experience everything—both the ups and the downs. Over the past eighteen years, I’ve learned to handle myself, make good decisions, have strength.