Do you remember how much of your childhood was spent waiting to get old enough?
No matter how many birthdays you’d had, there was always something you wanted to have, or longed to do, that was prohibited because you weren’t old enough.
As a small child, I faced this almost daily. Crossing the street alone, riding my tricycle all the way around the block, staying up past eight-thirty. By the time I reached the magical age, those were replaced by a whole new set of wants that were permitted my older sister and other children in the neighborhood. The argument that other kids my age were allowed to do something forbidden to me never worked with my mother. She’d just say something like, “Well, Norma Jo isn’t MY little girl,” and I’d end up feeling sorry for Norma Jo because her parents were overpermissive.
Today, the adolescent years still swarm with wants and want-to-dos, all necessary to becoming an adult and with all the rights and responsibilities that go with it. We all wish our children would slow down just a little and take their time—remain children just a bit longer—but they can’t seem to get there fast enough. The rites of passage in my day, seem pretty tame compared to what our teens expect today. It was a major decision for my mother to declare that I was old enough to shave my legs, wear lipstick, earrings, or high-heeled shoes. I can’t imagine what she would have to say about cell phones, credit cards, chat rooms and thousand-dollar concert tickets.
The two real biggies then were getting an after-school job and going on dates. Those were engraved in stone and were subjects not to be broached until we were sixteen. Dad was hard-working and proud that he could provide for his family. He was proud that his wife did not have to “hold down an outside job” and that his daughters did not need to work but only chose to. Even after we had part-time jobs in high school, we received a generous weekly allowance, plus five dollars for every A on our report cards. As for dating, I suspect that, because he had four daughters, Dad meant to delay the complexities of boy-girl relationships for as long as possible.
My first date was with a boy who endeared himself to my dad by phoning and asking his permission to invite me to go bowling with him – and his parents! Hardly the enchanting experience I’d been led to expect from all those Jane Withers and Mickey Rooney movies. My first job (aside from helping run my parents’ miniature golf course) was for a few hours per week lettering signs and arranging display windows at the Penney’s Store. Occasionally, I helped clerk during busy times. All for fifty cents an hour. And there was one mortifying episode in the men’s department, when my boyfriend’s mother came in to buy boxer shorts for him.
I don’t know how I got to be ninety so soon, but maybe I am finally old enough to do anything I want to do, within legal and moral limits. Problem is – I no longer want to do most of them. For a good many years, I wanted to do such glamorous and exciting things as; learn to be a really good dancer, wear an exquisite evening gown, see a live ballet performance, hire someone else to paint the ceiling, brush up on my French, take a scenic train ride across Canada, read the Rubaiyat, take a luxurious cruise and spend months traveling to exotic places. I wanted to see the Mona Lisa in person, attend the New Year Day concert in Vienna and, oh, so many things that other people actually do.
Today, I have no such impossible ambitions. I don’t sleep well in strange places, get stiff and restless after two hours in a car, bus, train or plane. I don’t like the idea of giving up the comfort of familiar surroundings and proven routines. I prefer to do my traveling through the magic of television, books, and my own imagination. The discomforts of age rule out any desire to dance, ski, hike, para-sail, scubadive or ride a camel. As the song says, I can see “far-away places with strange-sounding names” with Rick Steves on my TV screen.
I can do as I please because I’m finally old enough.