Christina found a gray hair on my head. I almost died. I had her rip it out faster than you can say supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. Ahhh. I’m growing older. And that gray hair is the proof. I guess getting old isn’t all that bad. There are of course some advantages, right? Hm. Your credit history improves (as long as you are responsible). Your car insurance goes down (as long as you have no major problems). Keg parties turn into cocktail parties and drinking red wine. You gain more respect as a working professional. You can get married. And have babies. Buy a home in suburbia. And own a minivan.
Yikes.
It’s not like I’m freaked out to become older and more adult-like, it’s a transition, I suppose, like any other part of my life. Tween to teen to eighteen (watch out world) to twenty-one. But this transition seems a little bit more scary. Permanent. More responsibilities. All in a good and exciting way, of course. I’d call my current stage of life, “young adult-limbo-land.” I enjoy staying in on a Friday night and watching a movie with Ryan (there, I said it) and yeah my social calendar isn’t as booked up as it once was (and <gasp> that’s okay with me). I’m realizing more and more, day in day out, the importance of family. I look back when I was eighteen. Everything and I mean everything was about my friends. Yeah, I was selfish. I’d rather go to a concert or party than a family dinner. I look back and ask myself, who was I ? Not recognizing my actions or lack of heart. Thankfully, I outgrew that stage (phew).
More importantly though, in this journey to a full-fledged adult, I am realizing my criteria for friendship has drastically changed. I have always had a large group of friends. Friends here. Friends there. Acquaintances galore. I’ve been to known (at times) to be a renowned social butterfly. But I have that problem– the “I want everyone to like me” problem. This does lead to some distress when someone dun-dun-dun, doesn’t like me. Tear. I immdeatley want to fix me and please the person. Is that weak? I don’t know how to not care. Is it insecurity? Is it a people-pleasing addiction? Who knows. All I do know, is that this mixed with my uber-sensitive self equals me, often taking people’s actions, words, ect to heart. And thus, becoming upset. And thus, taking action to fix the problem.
Sigh.
But the good news is, is that I am realizing this about myself. And I do (do-do-do) want to change. I know, obviously, I can’t rid myself of my sensitivity– I’ve accepted it’s a part of who I am. In many ways, my sensitivity makes me– me. I like caring. I like feeling. I like being intuned with others. My sensitivity only becomes crippling when I blame myself (even if I’m not at fault). Woe is me.
My large group of friends has dwindled down to an elite few. The elite few– who know me, who love me, who listen whole-heartily, and who provide positivity to my life. I know, no friendship is perfect. And I am often thankful for the obstacles I’ve encountered with my friends because it makes our friendship– our bond– that much stronger; however, heary, heary world let it be known…
I, Johanna, am no longer investing myself into friendships I don’t believe in. I am no longer surrounding myself with negative people because “I want everyone to like me.” Why? Because I don’t have to. And I am strong enough (and old enough) to know that my friendship is worthy of respect and kindness.
Getting old is feeling oddly liberating. Who would of thought?
this is courtesy of my Mom turned web-geek who found this cool website (http://wordle.net/) where I could make this. The ol’bird’s hipness never ceases to amaze me…
