The End of an Era
Am I supposed to think differently? I know that you stop looking different on your birthdays around 15 or so but now I face the horrible realization that I have to ‘think’ differently. Flashback to August 15, 1979: James and Ellen welcomed their first and only daughter into the world at around 6 a.m. Not that I was anything incredibly unique, thousands of babies were born on that date. (My personal claim to fame is that I share my birthday with Ben Affleck:0) I bet a lot of them are facing the problem that I am facing now also, the end of an era. The end of being able to sneak that funny ending onto yourself-teen. I will no longer be a teen. Twenty. It sounds so mature and adult. As if changing my magic number that is plastered to my forehead is going to make me think differently.
My parents keep looking at me hoping that if I turn twenty I will lose my rebellious love of boybands and join them in their worshipping of classical music and Johnny Mathis. My parents know that I am not the smartest person to walk this earth. I have light brown hair but I am truly a ditzy blond at heart. I do stupid things such as forget my keys when they are in my hand or misplace my sunglasses when they are on top of my head. It was okay to do those things though because I was a teenager. Now, at twenty, I have to become more responsible. I have to shed that giggly exterior and become a quieter more serious woman. My poor mother hoped that would happen when I turned thirteen and then when I turned sixteen and had the responsibility to drive. Eighteen and my high school graduation along with embarking on college came and went and I was still the giggly pigtailed girl with the missing front tooth in my mother’s eyes. I laugh too loud at jokes and cheer too loud at sporting events.
My mother was brought up in that old school, ‘women are supposed to be seen and not heard’ way. My own grandmother disowned me when I turned five and rebelled by keeping my shirt off just like my brothers. "What’s wrong with it, Grammy? Jamie’s doing it," I asked. She was too polite to tell me the real reason but I was five and it wasn’t like I was doing anything pornographic. I can still remember looking up at her stoic figure, glaring down at me for sneaking into the freshly picked strawberries with both hands. Forever ingrained in my head was her mantra regarding her only granddaughter, "Amanda you talk just to hear yourself talk." I readily admit that I did…and still do. I have a big mouth; It runs in the family. My father never really lived up to his role as son-in-law with my grandmother either so we teased her ways behind her back. We were never cruel (well, mostly never cruel) but we did mock her love of pickled herring, "Manda, it follows you around the room with its beady eyes. I refuse to eat anything that stares at me while I’m doing it." My grandmother would die if she knew how loud I screamed for N’Sync’s version of the Jackson Five’s I Want You Back but then again, I am still only a teenager. I have eight days until I hit the big 2-0 and I plan on not wasting any of the time. I want to make use of my last days as a "teen." Do you think a big pink shirt with the words, "I am NINETEEN!" would be too ostentatious? If you’re in Boston and see a girl wearing it, just know it’s me.
This is me on my fifth birthday. Notice the pigtails and adorable missing tooth. And, yes, look closely that is a Care Bears cake that I had.