I think I know what my problem is: maturity.
Several summers ago, I hosted a small bonfire. We roasted marshmallows and created our own ice cream sundaes to top it off. After awhile, my guests got bored just staring at the fire (I was quite content, I might add). They decided to play non-alcoholic Dizzy Bat, using a croquet mallet instead of a bat. They formed teams and spun around, then raced (or tried to, rather) to the waiting teammate. I looked on. It looked stupid to me. The idea of spinning around after consuming a giant bowl of ice cream did not appeal to me. I let them laugh. I let them have their fun. I looked on.
I think they could tell I wasn’t keen with the goings on. But here’s the problem: I really can’t help it. Something in me is programmed to dislike childlike behavior. I’ve been like this for as long as I can remember.
Teammates at a cross country meet were throwing acorns at each other and laughing like maniacs. I felt embarrassed to be associated with them.
My junior and senior years, I never rode the bus home from track and/or cross country meets. Looking back now, I found myself wondering why I hadn’t. I missed out on a lot (if you count going to Burger King and wearing the paper crowns as a lot which, when with the right people, I do). It comes down to my maturity problem. Kids on the bus drove me insane with their ear-shattering cacophony on the way to the meet that I rarely desired to spend more time with them.
My maturity is a blessing in the eyes of the adults in my life, and a curse in the eyes of fellow teenagers. I am probably known as a stick in the mud; a fun sucker. I hear tales of drunken high schoolers. People laugh as they tell me about the wild parties going on and who kissed whom or who shed every article of clothing possible. I don’t laugh. I feel sad or disappointed, depending on the party of people involved.
Get some alcohol in me, and I can let go. But if I’m sober in a room full of drunk people, I’m not a happy camper. I can’t be sober and think a drunk person is funny at the same time. I can’t be sober and hear about who-did-what-with-who and not feel a little sick. The idea of drinking casually is more tempting than drinking just to get drunk (especially since the shit tastes vile, anyway).
So many times, I’ve asked myself this question: why didn’t I socialize and hang out more with people in my own grade during senior year?
The answer is Robby. He can be silly at times, but when it comes right down to it, he is the most mature young man I know. Any adult who knows him would agree with me. He’s a nice boy. He’s not the typical, just-wanna-get-in-your-pants 17-year-old. He’s a genuine, sweet and caring guy who proved himself to be mature right from the start of our courtship on February 21, 2010. We have always been inseparable until, of course, college forcibly drove us apart. My infantile peers just couldn’t match up to him. I didn’t want them to. Robby and I are 17 and 18 going on 30, respectively.
The people in my life like Katie, Robby, Kevin, Mama, Tayler, Caitlin, Sarah and Tori really know how to draw the silliness out of me. Everyone else in the world will just have to deal with the me who is stuck in the mud.