The disillusionment of 21

I remember when my 21st birthday was in a year so far away it seemed like I’d need a time machine to get there. I remember thinking that everything would be okay when I got to 21. The aim was to have life all figured out at 18, but just in case, I allowed myself 3 extra years to get it right.

At 21, I’d know all the answers: I’d know why my jeans didn’t shrink in the machine, I’d know why I continued to like guys who were bad for me, I’d know how to prevent bubbles from forming in my nail polish and I’d perfect my winged liner. I’d unlock all the secrets to the universe by 21. I’d be pretty. I’d be smart. I’d be perfect.

I’d finally know what to say when guys said “Tell me about yourself”, I’d know the answer to “What do you want to be when you grow up?” At 21 I’d have every year for the rest of my life mapped out. At 21 a whole new world would be about to open for me.

Now I’m 20, and I’ll hit 21 in a matter of weeks. And even though I’ve gotten here without a time machine (I think), it feels like I was catapulted into the future without the security prep speech before every major travelling expedition. There was no fasten your belt talk, no pack an extra pair of underwear just in case bit of advice. Nada. Nothing was done to prepare me for the moment when I would realize that almost 21 years of my life have passed and I don’t feel any wiser, any more beautiful or any more put together. If I could have given myself any piece of advice, this would be it:

Life doesn’t get easier at the beginning of your 20s, it gets harder.

The training wheels of life seem to come careening off just as you’re maneuvering yourself and all your baggage around an especially deep corner. The potholes seem bigger, the friends seem faker, it finally clicks that your parents are mortal and flawed human beings and everything can’t be fixed with a tub of icecream. After just one year of this twenties business, I’ve had to make life changing decisions and I’ve looked to my parents only to have them shrug as if to say “Yuh deh pon yuh own wid dah one ya.” At 20, instead of being set in stone, friendships and relationships start to crumble and you find yourself having to start from building blocks to regain some sort of stability in your life.

Maybe at 30. Definitely at 30. At 30 I’ll finally make a major decision without second guessing and sex-tuple guessing myself. At 30 I’ll have life down to an artform.

But for now, I’ll continue to trudge through the 20s, with the hope that the coming 9 years will be easier and I’ll be Halle Berry fabulous and put together like Jessica Pearson on the eve of my 30th.