Home, Interrupted.

Have you ever felt like you were trapped in your childhood? I'm not talking about the fun days when you'd swing on monkey bars - or if you were like me, hang on the first one as your potbelly weighed you down. I mean like you are unable to shake off whatever this "immaturity" is, that makes people look at you in that "Oh, honey" kind of way.

I feel it most when people ask me certain questions. With a cocked head and a look of impatience, "When are you going to stop dying your hair?" "Do you really need to paint your nails 3 different colors?" Or a disgusted glance followed by intense ear-contact, "So...have you thought about taking out those piercings?" Sometimes it's more generalized, like, "You got this out of your system, so are you going to calm down now?" And sometimes there are questions hiding behind questions, like, "How many hours a week do you dance?"

Separately, these things seem small, irrelevant even. But together, they hit a nerve. Collectively, they make up who I am, how I choose to live, what makes me feel like me when I walk into a crowded room. Why? I have no idea. Why not? I again have no idea. But for some reason, the why-not is answered with a because-it's-childish. Because it's not something grown-ups do, and one day, I'll have to grow out of this phunky phase of mine.

The problem is - this doesn't feel like a phase. No, this feels like exactly where I'm supposed to be, and exactly what I'm supposed to be doing. The problem is, this childish cage that everyone thinks I'm trapped in, is actually pretty cozy.

So maybe I'll rub my belly like a bowl full of jelly and just hang on this monkey bar for a while. Because It feels like home. And I'm not okay with being evicted before I even move in.