it happens. we all do it. we get further and further away from our glue-eating selves.
the version of us who would stick up to their bullies if they ripped your penguin costume (true story. i hit the chump with my pencil, repeatedly). who dreamed of living in houses with trampoline floors. who thought mastering her barbie veterinarian computer game and watching “emergency vets” was equivalent to a college degree. who couldn’t be held back from jumping into puddles. skating down steep hills with almost definite skinned knees in sight. sending complicated, colorful to the point-of-inducing-seizures love notes with no shame lingering within the composition notebook pages.
and i’m glad i am 20.9 years old. i get to run around the city past my bedtime. sleep in a full sized bed with as many pillows as i want. blast my music. go to concerts by my self. know how to put on mascara correctly (at least, i think so?) boys no longer have cooties. coffee tastes good to me, instead of black sludge my dad would always put in his thermos before heading out for the day. i’ve thankfully grown out of my phase of putting ranch dressing on everything, but i still miss the vestiges of my 8 year old self. in a way, i feel like she was the most authentic me. in a way, i still feel like i have clutched little pieces of that little girl’s spunk in my hand, even at 20.9 years old. i mean, i still adamantly wear dresses over my pants. if that doesn’t show that i am still 8 years old, i don’t know what will.
thus, my eight year old self project. these will be little tasks i think the 8 year old girl that still lives in me would be proud of. i mean, what’s the point of the freedom of adulthood if i can’t live out the dreams of a wee little mackenzie?
that means taking those ballet classes. and going to a place that has trampoline floors (more places than you might expect!) go ice-skating all the time. send a love letter, or three. sing in public. and volunteering with an animal shelter, so my obsession to animal planet was not done in vain. go see chincoteague island and the cherry blossoms.
and i encourage you all to do the same. i think we owe it to the eight year old little girls we once were, don’t you? what did your eight year old self want to do more than anything?