Ironically after much maturing, I believe in never growing up. Like any other girl, by age seven I had watched my mother enough times to know where she kept her ruby red lipstick, and how much time I had to model her shiny black pumps before she got home. By age ten, I still had the plump, round cheeks of a babe, but would not hesitate to declare I was a little woman of ten and a half. Likewise, at thirteen I wanted the glamorous life of thirty year old, complete with a closet of the latest fashions, a gorgeous boyfriend, and a diet for my non-existent love handles. At that breakneck speed of maturing, surely I was destined to sign up for Social Security before I even got my drivers license.
However, it all came to a screeching halt when now, finally at sixteen and the brink of adulthood, I’ve realized, what is all the rush? What is so great about growing up to realize the world is nothing like Mr. Roger’s Neighboorhood? About accepting that not everyone will love you, or even like you, as selflessly as your mother? As children we live with words like responsibility, disappointment, and tragedy all blotted out of our dictionaries in magic marker. The words are there, but we can neither read them nor are we interested in their meanings. This innocence is in short– beautiful and blissful.
That is why today, as was when I was five, Peter Pan is my hero. As a little girl I admired his ability to fly, (and believe me I still do) but today more than that I treasure his childish love for life and happiness. Without a care in the world, Peter lived for adventures against Captain Hook, for Wendy’s laughter, and for the magic of fairies that could exist only if you believed. So now, even as I inevitably age in a whirlwind of corruption, I always carry a pinch of fairy dust in my pocket, and I refuse to let go of my Wendy, the little girl who tried on her mother’s ruby red lipstick and shiny black pumps so many years ago.
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