The very recent Miley Cyrus’ VMA performance has been all over my Facebook since this morning, and I just couldn’t help watching the full video myself. Actually I didn’t watch the full video, because it was too much for me. I don’t know if it was the old-fashion disgust, the thought of me at 18 fighting with my parents to stay out until 2 a.m., the fact that I’d like to have her flat stomach or the disgust for thinking such a thing in front of such a video. Anyway. At the beginning, after being disgusted and giggling a little, I entered the who-cares mode and proceeded scrolling some cat pictures of my Facebook newsfeed. But later a question crossed my mind: are we forever teens? The question may sound quite off-topic, because after all Miley is only 20 and I am not even 23. But isn’t being a teenager between something like 13/14 to 18/19?
My point is: I am a 22-year-old intern, and this Sunday, heavy with a horrible hangover while preparing the stuff for work, I realized I actually am two different entities. During the week I am something like 35 years old. I go to work, do my job, come home, cook something, pretend with myself to write a decent blog and watch Sex and the city or read myself to sleep. And I’ve only been here a month. But during these last 3 weekends, once Saturday morning started I slipped right back into my teen years. And there I was, 16 again, with a cocktail in my hand dancing more like a hooligan while singing for his team rather than like a sexy girl in her twenties. There I was playing table football with strangers. There I was having a great tipsy time. And it was amazing. Does this mean new city, new clubs, new teenage years? Hard to say. And on Monday morning, there I was, 35 again.
Adulthood is weird. I heard people saying, every man has a kid inside. I thing it’s more likely we have a teenager inside. I heard people asking, what do you want to do when you grow up?, like when we were kids pretending we were princesses and kings. I wanna be a doctor, I wanna be a butcher. I still don’t consider myself as an adult, and I don’t think I am. And I don’t think I am because I see myself getting all angry about crashing my toes against some pieces of furniture or having fights for no real reason and having fun with strangers like they were my best friends. But does this really ends? Do we really wake up one day with no will to fight, no will to drink a bit too much, no will to say childish things? We all know the anwer to this.
I think we never stop. I think we may stop being total assholes with our parents, stop doing really stupid things, but inside, that little grain of drama, sweat, indecent party-mood, indecent love for living the moment, strenght to fight for our little achievements will always be somewhere in the back of our stomaches. Good? Will we always be able to have fun the same way?