People constantly think I’m older than I actually am. Once, right after my best friend had received her driver’s license, and right before I was eligible to test for my driver’s permit, we dined at The Melting Pot so that we could commemorate her first paycheck. The server we had continued to badger us to purchase a bottle of the evening’s special, despite our consistent denial. After he found out our ages – 15 and 16, respectively – he instantly backed off.
“What was I doing in March of 1998?” he asked, looking at the Children’s ID my mother had issued for me because of people thinking my age was different than it actually was, “I was getting ready for my senior prom.”
Yeah, because I really needed to know that, man.
Three weeks later, I was asked out by a 40-year-old shipyard employee while I was on the clock at the register at JJ’s. At first, he was furious that I had declined him with a, “I’m pretty sure I’m too young for you, sir.” Like, do guys like it when you call them “sir” or something? Or does that not signal that I saw him as an elder rather than a companion? And then, when he came back with a, “Well, you’re 18, aren’t ya?” his face instantly morphed into fear after I replied that I wasn’t even old enough to test for my driver’s permit yet. When he walked away from the register, his companion apologized profusely, but it was probably because my boss was glaring at them from right beside me.
“He doesn’t get out much,” he’d said, attempting to lighten the mood.
I had to take a walk outside because I felt so awkward.
I mean, it’s not like it’s a bad thing. I’m 17 and a sophomore in college. I graduated Summa Cum Laude and number five in my high school class. I’m technically knocking off two years of college debt, totalling about $40,000 saved (but, realistically, it evens out since I want to go to grad school, but still…). And, that’s great and all, but that’s all I’m known for, besides being “that girl who did a lot of band stuff.”
I’m also known as the girl you don’t want to party with because you and all your friends can get arrested.
Yeah. Imagine finding out, your first day at college, that if an RA busted a party with alcohol, you and all the other people there would skip the CHECS violation and the cops would be called.
And not just CNU cops.
The NNPD cops.
Lemme top it off for you: even if I’m in my bedroom, sleeping, and the party is in the common room or my suitemates’ room, we all get arrested. Still.
Needless to say, I don’t get invited to much stuff.
I always thought I’d never struggle with the transition into college life. I took classes at a community college for a whole semester; I was already used to having breaks in between classes and dealing with professors who didn’t care if it was pouring down rain – you still needed to be at class. I already had decent time management skills; I was involved in multiple clubs and worked about fifteen hours a week.
And then I actually got here.
It’s not the academic work. I’m maintaining about a C average, which is better than I thought I would have at this point. I was blessed to not only be able to score one job on campus, but another one as well. I’ve found a great home here at HC CNU, where everyone supports my ideas and encourages my writing.
But it still didn’t help me as much as I had hoped.
It escalated to the point that I turned to the counseling center for help. The person I had my initial appointment with told me at my next – and final – visit that he actually thought my concerns were pretty normal, and he honestly thought I didn’t need their help. “When you left, I found myself thinking, ‘None of this is really anything I wouldn’t expect from a first-year college student’,” he’d said.
But then, we figured out the real problem: I had become insecure about myself because of my age.
Something that I had always thought of as a prideful thing, something that had helped people to remember and be impressed with me, had become my quicksand. Instead of using my age to my advantage, I was letting it bother me. I was letting it become the thing that hindered me from enjoying life.
And, while we talked about how I’m actually tired of being held to certain standards and expectations because of my accomplishments and goals, I know that I’m also worried about not being accepted. I can’t live a normal college life. While my roommates plan a Friday night outing, I stay back and study. While my friends can apply for apartment living and car loans, I write blog posts to occupy my time. In two years, when I attend Paul & Rosemary’s champagne mixer, I won’t be drinking anything besides sparkling grape juice (if they even have it).
At first, I thought all these issues just stemmed from homesickness. And now, I realize I look forward to going home because I actually get more independence there than I do here, away from my parents. I have the opportunity to ask them, “Hey, can I borrow the car?” The people I hang out with at home are so used to me being too young to do anything that they don’t mind just staying in and watching Netflix; in fact, that’s what they want to do. I don’t have to constantly remind my coworkers that I can’t use the meat slicer because I’m underage at JJ’s, they know better.
And, sure, it sounds like I’m whining. And, I probably am. But I’m sure there are things you hate about your life, too.
I’m just choosing to write about them.
This is where I’ve found my haven. Writing is one of the things I’ve been able to do where my age never matters. Writing allows me to sit back, relax, and let my fingers do the talking. I can express who I am without having to be judged, because if I wanted to, I can be someone else. I can do anything I want when I write, and I don’t have to answer to any laws besides slandering.
But, considering I prefer fiction writing, I don’t really think that’s a problem. The only problem from writing is having plot issues and my roommates staring daggers at me because of the constant clicking of keyboard keys distracting them from studying.
Writing has become my coping mechanism. When something bothers me, I just start writing. When I become stressed about something, I write. When I write, I’m no longer a minor in an adult world.
I’m just Royall.
In the meantime, if you ever need a DD, you know who to call.