For the first time since I started the WordPress PostAweek challenge (not always completed, to be honest) I decided to write about the topic proposed. And writing about myself explodes the visits to my blog, you avid gossip readers!
I said to S. recently that we are adults, but somehow we did not realize we were growing up. I feel like we missed something, the last steps. How did we get here? When was that moment? Here you are adult, long time adult, actually, but when did you turn into one?
N., the man who went to a school where they teach you how to be always right, once over dinner already told me that adulthood means taking decisions and defending them.
There was that time when I crossed the Channel alone, the car in the ferry, my life in the car. The ferry smelled like childhood vacation, and I, suddenly, was my dad. The one in charge, the one who goes below deck when the drivers are called.
And that time when I thought my dad was me, that I could help him understand, and not the other way round, even if he doesn’t want to.
There was that day I discovered I was lied to, and then told the truth, and didn’t like it.
I desperately cried my anger over the reality, like the young myself always does. Then I woke up, and dealt with it because I decided that no pain nor pride could justify giving up what I wanted. And never regretted it.
I always forget to ask N. the name of the school, though.