Eighteen

Eighteen seconds.
Eighteen minutes.
Eighteen hours.
Eighteen days.
Eighteen weeks.
Eighteen months.
Eighteen years.

Yes, look how far I've come.

They say eighteen is special. Eighteen is big. Eighteen is congratulation-worthy. They make it out to be some huge celebration with friends and laughter and joy. Or maybe, it was me who did that. More likely than not, this image was permanently placed in my head by a younger version of me who happened to get bored one Saturday evening and let her mind wander into the future. That is dangerous. It is dangerous because it feeds the mind expectations. And in the majority of cases, the only thing that comes out of expectations is disappointment. Yes, there was a time when I dreamed of being eighteen, when I sat in awe of freedom and maturity and reputation. It's not to say that I do not value those qualities now; I do. Just not from childish eyes anymore. Eighteen is nothing more than a number now, one up from seventeen and just short of nineteen. And as it is wedged uncomfortably between its two neighbors, I am the same. I am confined to the narrow crevice between the last of my childhood and the vast darkness of adulthood. So the reality is, eighteen isn't all that great. In fact, it is mostly confusion and angst, overwhelming choices and difficult decisions. Eighteen isn't fantasy. It's reality.