The end of age

In high school we all long to be mature; it's as if we have all turned 40 and are dying to nest somewhere, rush through adolescence and bring on the responsibility of life. If someone has the nerve to call us otherwise, we scowl and think of vengeful things to say in return.

As I get older, the idea of maturity seems more like an age reference than a behavioral one.

I am mature; I am a fully-grown, post-pubescent, past-the-age-of-18-years, about-to-graduate-from-college adult.

Yet my behavior reeks of childhood.

I think farts are still the funniest things imaginable; I even own a book dedicated to the hilarity of farting, which my dad found in a used bookstore and immediately knew the perfect hands that it belonged in.

I am addicted to rainbow sprinkles.

I like board games, but not the ones that require a fully developed brain. Anything that has an age limit of six years or younger is perfect. Candyland, Hungry Hungry Hippos... I'm not ready for Monopoly yet.

I sleep with my man, Junior, every night, my trusty little stuffed tiger that has become more like an orange and black striped pancake from the decades of love, travel and tears.

I fake an accent or play dress up when my own identity becomes too bland.

I have the constant urge to do cartwheels in random places, run barefoot through the grass and jump into the ocean fully clothed.

I think that naptime should still be involved in a daily routine, even if it does follow cocktail hour.

Grown-ups don't do this, right?

I can't imagine packing away Junior, taking flatulence seriously, or forgetting the importance of a good old game night filled with colored play pieces instead of brainteasers.

Somehow this is all positive. After observing many bitter old women, I began praying to the god of aging that I never lose my childish mentality, that I always maintain some form of innocence and never become jaded.

Luckily, it doesn't seem that hard a task, since it involves playfulness, fun and a positive everything-is-new-again state of mind.

Maybe Peter Pan, Tinkerbell and all the Lost Boys had the right idea. We all can't be immortal and remain physically 12 years old, but maybe our hearts and our minds can hold on to a bit of playtime. Sure, the Barbies, Legos and GI Joes have been packed away long ago, but being young at heart doesn't require toys. It requires a non-judgmental, "free to be me" social outlook.

So to all the graduates, hold on to what got you here, stop taking everything so seriously, take a little time to smell the flowers, play in the rain, and visit Neverland... minus Michael Jackson.