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I just celebrated another birthday, last week. (Thank you, everyone, for the well-wishes and the thoughtful gifts!) Only one more year before I'll have to change that blogger blurb describing myself as "twenty-something". . . The years really do sneak up on you, don't they?
Caution: Now I will blather on for a few paragraphs. It's really not worth reading, but I don't have the heart to press the "delete" key. . .
When did you first realize that you were never really going to feel "different" as an adult-- that you'll probably feel essentially the same at eighty as you did at eleven? Ok, some things do change, I guess, but you always feel like the same person, don't you?
I guess that as a kid I thought I'd magically transform at some point. Maybe the fault likes with the whole "little girl blossoming into a woman" type of thing. (g) They never tell you, though, that underneath the obvious external changes-- despite the frenzied accumulation of knowledge that continues for a handful of years-- you don't change all that much. (Or, if you do, it must happen so gradually that I somehow missed it. . . Or maybe it wiped out my memory of the former me?)
I think I was in high school when I understood that I was always going to be me, for better or worse (or for better and worse, with both my my personal set of talents and tendencies toward certain faults). There wasn't going to be a moment of exponential change in my personality. I'd go on growing and learning, bit by bit, as I had for the previous however-many years of my life, but at the core, I would remain mostly the same person. Just like we all do.
Well, that's ok. I'd rather be myself, anyway. I wouldn't know how to be someone else. ;o)