Opinion | I don’t like the 20-year-old me
Luca Evans, Managing Editor
On the night of Jan. 1, I sat in my bed, grabbing at my phone enthusiastically until the time read 12:00 a.m. and I had officially turned 20 years old. The innocent, teenage version of myself was presumably exorcised from my body and vanished like an apparition out of my bedroom window, and in its place was the new-and-improved “Adult Luca” — ready to conquer the world.
A little under a year ago, I wrote an opinion about how I was no longer scared of adulthood. I really believed it, too. I was ready. Or so I thought.
Well, I’m about a month in, and I take it all back. 20 sucks. “Adult Luca” sucks. I hate it here.
In kindergarten, as I like to tell it, I toured a first-grade classroom and thought, “This is pretty easy,” so I moved up a year early. Ever since then, I’ve been a year or so younger than anyone else at my level. It preserved a youthful, energetic spirit. It made me feel special.
Now I’m done with my teens, no longer the youngest of anything and feeling pressured to change so much about myself really quickly to fit into an adulthood I’ve always viewed as a distant ship on the horizon.
Remember that scene in “The Office” (sorry, horrible way to start a sentence) where Jim completely hoodwinks Michael into believing anything he says is the definition of “classy” because he’s wearing a tuxedo? Well, “Adult Luca” has a little version of that Jim on his shoulder, smirking at the camera and telling him all of a sudden the things he used to find terrific just aren’t classy anymore.
The cyberpunk landscape tapestry above your bed in your apartment? What does that even represent? That’s not even derived from any show or book, Luca; that’s just a generic futuristic poster. You spent $25 on a giant, dumb, pixelated poster that doesn’t even mean anything. What adult has that in their bedroom? Not classy.
That Stephen Curry jersey on the bottom shelf in your closet? Stupid. Imagine walking around wearing fan merchandise of a piece of clothing that a famous athlete wears just because they’re very good at throwing a ball in a hoop. Have fun with that collecting dust in there. Not classy.
Throughout high school and my freshman and sophomore years of college, I was known as “Blue Boy,” because my entire wardrobe was blue. I wore blue hoodies of different hues every day. I was happy. I was comfortable. I laughed along at the jokes. But that’s just not classy. Now, I have plain-hued flannels and dress shirts propagating my closet.
Am I maturing, becoming classy or just transforming into the button-downed version of myself I feel like I should be?
I miss the me that flew out that window at midnight once I turned 20. Every day, I feel like I wake up trying to prove to somebody (myself?) that I am a real, functioning adult because I am now 20 years of age and about three years older than your average coming-of-age protagonist. I have six different cleaning products that I don’t really know the difference between, and I bought a single potato, onion and tomato the last time I went to Trader Joe’s to seem like I knew how to cook.
I even have a bamboo and Himalayan salt essential oil diffuser that makes my living room smell delightful — but like, essential oil diffusers? I asked for socks for Christmas, I play indie rock when I’m on aux to impress people and I try to repress the amount of energetic passion I once used to exude in social situations.
If you’re reading this and feel unsure of who you are, the one piece of advice I have is to find that innocence and hold onto it as tightly as the seven-year-old you gripped the monkey bars at your local playground. Swinging, without a care, from bar to bar. Never let that feeling go.
I have to follow my own advice, too. The childhood life force of a long-haired, bright-eyed, blue-hoodie-wearing Luca still floats there outside my bedroom window, close enough for me to grab. So I’m going to reach out the window. I’m going to wear my dress shirts and my flannels, but I’ll bust out the Curry jersey every once in a while. I’ll keep the cyberpunk poster up. I don’t need to buy that many cleaning products. I can express myself more, be more excited, feel more alive than Classy Jim tells me to be.
Time’s relative, anyways. Here’s to 21?