As many of my friends get married, have children, buy houses, bury grandparents, get promotions, travel the world and generally astonish me with evidence of their sheer grown-upness, I still find myself doing cartwheels in the garden, dancing alone in the rain, amusing myself with zany animal imitations (you should see my peacock! That wasn’t a suggestive ‘come see my etchings’ type invitation, I really can do a fantastic peacock), reading whimsical children’s books, chasing my mum around the house when she comes to visit whilst pretending to be a T-Rex (complete with stubby claw arms and deafening roar), laughing myself silly over my own jokes and frankly, I wonder if I should be vaguely ashamed.
Really, I’ve got two degrees, I pay all my bills on time, I write policy for the government, I keep up-to-date with world events, I can correctly use an Oxford comma, I can iron, I can be trusted with small children and I can say hello in a couple of languages. I understand that I’m probably an adult in everybody else’s estimation, but I just can’t shake the feeling that I should somehow be behaving more adult-like.
But frankly, I don’t think I want to.
What I do want to do is climb to the top of a tree and lie cradled in its branches, I want to do dizzy-wizzies until I can’t walk straight and I crash to the grass and have to dig my fingers into the earth until the world stops spinning, I want to read fairy stories and believe in dragons, I want to sit outside late into the night watching the stars wheel across the sky, I want to find humour in the smallest things, I want to watch people in my rear view mirror and suspect them of being international spies shadowing me (it’s fun until they start going exactly the same route as me…), I want to sob over the fate of my favourite characters, and I want to eat lollies for dinner when it takes my fancy.
Frankly me ole friend, I’m thinking of re-writing the adult rule book. Or at least making a footnote exempting me from the usual requirements.