Tomorrow I turn 20 years old. It’s worse typed out in numbers: I’m turning 20. Twenty, for crying out loud.
I don’t want to be twenty. I want to be nineteen – forever and ever and ever and ever – and seeing as my maturity is on level with a 13-year-old’s, it’s understandable why I whine.
I’m not old enough to be 20.
The other day, I was crossing the street from Greenbelt to the PLDT building. I was in my brand-new zip jacket (worth all of P45 from the UK– a.k.a Baguio) and my best friend’s sneakers that I never gave back when we were 15. There I was, earphones in gear, ponytail bouncing, literally singing in the rain and on top of the world. I heard a couple of guys calling out "Miss, miss!" accompanied by whistles. Well what the hey, even in beat-up jeans and a sweater, I get whistled at by truck drivers.
So I stroll down to the other side, ego expanding, until finally the note of alarm in the voices registered in my head. I turn around, the Gin Blossoms’ rocking away with Till I Hear It From You on my player. The sight that greeted me is one that makes me wish I never heard of Ayala Avenue.
Trailing down the wet concrete was a line of my paraphernalia: tubes and pots of makeup, thesis readings, file-case, coins, the essential P10 secondhand romance novel, extra T-shirt, sanitary napkins (oh yes) and (it gets worse) extra underwear. Apparently, my ever-dependable, much battered backpack had managed to unzip itself (a result, I assume, of all my bounce, bounce, bouncing down the street).
When I was 10, I read somewhere that by the time a person turned 20, her personality would be fully formed. It is the time when "the pages of youth are swept away, leaving behind the first page of a glowing new chapter in life." At 20, along with Happy Birthday, people begin sentences with lines like, "Iha, you’re no longer a teenager, dapat responsable ka na."
Since I seem to have failed in the responsible area, and by no means can claim to a fully-formed (or stable) personality, I’m creating a list of everything I should do, be, or intend to have by the time I’m thirty. I figure a 10-year grace period is enough to achieve my humble goals.
What I want when I grow up:
1. I want to fill out a C-cup bra.
2. I want to have Amanda Griffin’s legs (and Ren Zellwegger’s nose).
3. I want to write the Great Filipino Novel
4. I want an engagement ring engraved with "Love, Johnny Depp."
5. I want to save the Philippines.
6. I want to travel all over the world (and buy a pair of dangling earrings at every bazaar).
7. I want to pass the AVENGE (Act Vilifying Evil, Nefarious and Guilty Entities) – a law that sentences cab drivers to six months in jail for refusing to give the exact change.
8. I want to be 5’7".
9. I want a professional driver’s license.
10. I want to dance in public (without seriously injuring people within a five-meter radius).
11. I want to have a walk-in closet as big as a swimming pool.
12. I want to stay 30 after I hit 30.
I used to think 20 was ancient. My romance novels talk about girls in "the full bloom of beauty at eighteen" or "budding with promise at sixteen." A 20-year-old Juliet/Rose/Daphne in the historical romance genre (as in the books with Lancelots and castles and white horses) is an absolute no-no.
There’s one thing about this whole coming-of-age business that I like. According to a recent study, most Filipino women believe that beauty depends on youth, and that a woman is most beautiful at 20. Following this logic, it seems that I’ll be gorgeous on Saturday and three hundred sixty-four days after.
I’ll worry about the rest when I’m 21.