blowing bubbles

Adulthood is tricky. I’ve been at it for a few years, but I’m not quite sure I’ve got the hang of it. Whenever I start to believe I know exactly what I’m doing, something happens and I’m left trembling in my childlike size 3 boots. The matter is compounded by the fact that the things of my childhood have become even more wonderful since reaching my 20’s. The other night in a bar with friends, whilst enduring decidedly horrid karaoke from people who were seemingly trying to contact life on Mars (unsuccessfully, I add), a machine came on which blew bubbles out into the crowd. I was in love. My little childish heart skipped several beats and before I knew it, I was on my feet in the middle of the room, bouncing amidst a bubbled bliss. It was magical! Well, until I got a bubble in my eye, but up until that moment I was in Heaven. I joke about being a Never Never Land baby, but at the age of 23, I’m pretty sure I’ll never grow up to resemble the granny panty wearing, can’t stay up all night, retirement fund candidate my peers seem to be transforming into.

Tomorrow, my parents are going away for a week. This equals an entire house to myself. Being 23 this ought to mean responsibility. It ought to mean ensuring there’s enough food in the pantry to last the week. It ought to mean feeding the fish, taking out the trash and washing the dishes. Instead, my childish imagination envisions turning every radio in the house onto the same station as I dance around the house (quite likely in my underwear) and sing into my hairbrush. Glimpses of midnight feasts with left over Easter Eggs and a glass of wine scatter across my mind as my mother’s instructions for when the garden service are due float into one ear before being chased out by my imaginary self – again in my underwear. Images of a house full of friends with whom I can chat and laugh at all hours of the day and night warm my heart as I remind myself of my over-active imagination, that tends to see me turning on all the lights in the house in the middle of the night because of a “strange shadow” jumping at me from behind the couch.

In my world of continual playtime, daily adventures and happy-go-lucky living, there’s very little room for behaving like an adult. Instead of feeling proud of myself when I make a responsible, and adult decision, I feel decidedly disappointed in myself. Seemingly antithetical, but what can I say? If being an adult means I never get to blow bubbles or climb mountain at midnight; if it means I constantly have to think things through before I say or do anything and can’t list ‘chocolate flavoured Steri Stumpie’ as my favourite drink; and if it means I never get to sing and dance in my underwear at 1:30 in the morning… Well, bloody Hell, you can count me out!

Onwards! To the sandbox!