AGEING

My life is pretty much over. 

If my life was one of those sand-hourglass-egg-timer-things, it'd only have a few grains left to spare. The egg, a symbol of my life, would almost be boiled.

Sure, I've just turned 18, but those two digits might as well be reversed.

This realisation, that I'm actually ageing, and fast, rudely hit me when I was on the bus the other day. I realised that, hang on, I'm not 8 anymore. So I probably shouldn’t be wearing velcro runners with little lights in the soles that flicker whenever I run after mummy. Yep, I should probably take these off.

#Not8Anymore #BonusChildhoodPicture #TellMeImCuteLol

What triggered this epiphany? It was the horrid sound of laughter. Laughter belonging to youth. The laughter of those lucky ones with their lives still ahead of them. The laughter of those with unwrinkled skin.

When I heard the laughter, immediately I involuntarily turned around and glared at the pimple-faced culprit with a level of conviction I’d never achieved before. It was as if I was possessed by an angry tax payer. My reaction mirrored the 80ish year old man sitting next to me. Though I was a bit confused about what just overcame me, I joined him in a harmonised scoff of “ugh, teenage dirtbag” (baby) and a hi-5.

Proud of my efforts, I turned back around. But that’s when I caught my reflection in the bus window.

I realised, for the first time, that my face looked rather weathered. My eyes, too, looked different. No longer did they shine with the unencumbered freedom of childhood. Rather, they looked dim. Dim with concerns about superannuation. I then finally looked at the roll of yarn and half-completed scarf sitting my lap and it became obvious.

I’m old. Old. OLD.

In a panic I started to interrogate old man Jimbo sitting next to me. When did this happen? What were the warning signs? Why did it take so long for me to notice? HELP ME JIMBO I DON'T WANT TO BE LIKE ONE OF YOU. I grabbed him by the scruff of his accidentally trendy Cosby sweater but he simply laughed in my face. In horror, I turned back and looked at the teen with desperation. As if she could somehow save me from my impending doom. She took no notice of me. That's when Jimbo threw the scarf he had been knitting at me. IT'S TOO LATE DYLAN, YOU'RE ONE OF US NOW. Etched in the itchy fabric read: "ur old dylan lol just face it". And that's when I accepted my fate and wrapped the scarf around my neck.

Since then, I've caught myself flicking through junkmail. I also nearly sent an angry email to Metro. Then there’s the whole inability-to-function-properly-unless-I’ve-inhaled-4-short-blacks-in-the-morning thing. Also deserving of a mention are the naps I take on the train home from uni, without feeling a single ounce of shame. And I think I've got odd patterned socks on at the moment. I wasn't even trying to be ironic.

From this, if anything, I've realised (albeit, too late) that life is short. Don’t waste it like I did. Look at me, I just used the word 'albeit'. But there’s still hope for you. Learn from my mistakes. Go on... w-without me.