crayons

When I was 6 I was 23 and when I was 10 I was 15.

And I may have held three crayons in each hand, but all I was drawing was the future castle I’d call home and the good looking car I’d drive and better looking boy I’d date when I turned 16.

I dreamed of future birthdays and straight hair and finally meeting 10 o’ clock. And now the only thing I regret more than not giving my sixth grade crush a valentine letter is wasting all of that time

Wishing

Dreaming

Hoping

Because

I’d rather be stressed about which recess game I should play than which version of me I should present to which version of you.

Or

Which pair of knee high socks to wear than how many words I can get in before everyone becomes disinterested.

But I think that if 60% of the world knew that a class full of 17 and 18-year-olds were writing about wanting to be younger we’d be the new owner of the most-eye-rolls-received Guinness World Record.

So instead of envying the past, I’m going to learn from it. Because I do not, should not, will not look back at high school and regret all the time I spent wishing to be young

Because I can touch my toes

And stay out late

And cry whenever I want to

And I’m guessing in twenty years those things will start to look and feel a lot like crayons and I’m going to want them back too.

So take your crayons and draw a picture for the fridge if that’s what you want to do, but don’t forget to spend time driving to weird places and staying up late and enjoying the fact that girls and boys finally eat on the same side of the lunch room.

F. Sharpe