Okay, so I’m not seventeen anymore. I’m officially 18. But I’m trying my hardest to distance myself from such a number. It’s so silly because I’ve acquired all this added responsibility that I never even needed or wanted. I already pay the rent, I already buy the shopping, I already make dinner. The only difference is that society is willing to recognise me as an adult now that I’ve turned 18. But, what if I no longer want to become one?
Something I hate about being 18 is that I never got to sing that song. You know, Dancing Queen by ABBA. When I was kid, I used to dress up with my best friend in the most ridiculously frilly scarves and her mum’s wigs, each holding onto one of two remote controls screaming along to the lyrics.
You are the Dancing Queen, young and sweet, only seventeen
Dancing Queen, feel the beat from the tambourine!
I remember I used to think that I would love to be 17. What would it be like to be grown up? I would wonder those words all day and all night for some time, convinced that being grown up was quite a mystical period of time. Quite unknown. It took me a while to realise that I had all the responsibilities of being an adult but with the mind of a child. The ignorance of one. Seventeen was an age so blissfully thought about when I was younger.
Sigh, I wish I bloody sang that song when the time was right. When I really was seventeen. But now I’m 18 without a song to sing. Great. Absolutely fabulous.