Failing to be Mature Me

— converging selves

When I was 23, I imagined myself at 33.

33 year old me wore heels. She worked as a manager at some office and walked down long halls clicking her heels. It took her a decade to work herself up to the position and she was busy–she had a lot of responsibilities. 33 year old me carried a black designer bag that matched her wardrobe of dark trousers, blazers and dress shirts. She was tanned and toned all the time. If you find her outside the office, at a bar or cafe, she can be seen on her Blackberry.

‘I can’t wait to be a successful adult.’

At 23 I avoided uncomfortable shoes and clothing. I hated offices because of the cold air. I exercised excessively to make up for the time spent at the desk. I often ate cupcakes and never got tanned. I also believed Blackberries were inhumane.

Becoming an adult back then meant I had to grow into the things that felt uncomfortable.

The real 33 year old me is glad she has no Blackberry, no uncomfortable clothing and no fake tan.

What I still have is an idea of mature me. However, this version wears comfortable clothing in all sorts of colors and patterns. She’ll be doing something creative and she’ll be left alone, never on call.

The new version is someone who has more of what I enjoy today.

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