This stark reminder is from a young Yale student, who died this past Saturday. Ms. Marina Keegan wrote,
"I plan on having parties when I’m 30. I plan on having fun when I’m old."
She says 30, then says old.
I pause. A part of me wants to scream, "WHAT?"
30 isn't old.
Instead that way-past-30-voice silenced me and said, but 22 is young. In Ms. Keegan's own words,
There is a slice of me scoffing, perhaps even denying my age. The refrain is familiar. I look in the mirror and stretch, tug and pull at myself analyzing if indeed I "am my age". I whisper defiantly that I "don't look it" but when I'm brutally honest and true, I do. I look my age and I act it.
And I am happy about it.
The alternative doesn't work well for me.