girlish and greying

My mug is the one with dried tan drips down the lip, and nutella fingerprints on the side. I can't drink my coffee fast enough, I can't even pause to wipe the chocolate spread off of my fingertips; I'm thoughtless and impulsive, driven by eagerness, not hunger. A fresh bite of chocolatey cream on the vehicle of my choice (usually rice crackers) is chased with burnt coffee to achieve a woman-child's idea of harmony: sweet, deep and bitter. Even those three words are giving it too much credit. 

 

Who eats chocolate for breakfast?

 

"Oh, but it's a nutspread, it's healthy."

 

I roll my eyes at my inner dialogue.  I can't even fool myself.

I go to work, I file my taxes, I keep a tightly controlled digital calendar, and yet I still feel entirely inadequate as an adult. Does this sensation ever go away, or will I be plagued with girlishness beyond the point when I've lost my teeth and can't climb stairs anymore? 

 

I giggle and make voices, I play video games and do little dances (sometimes at the same time), I even skip when the urge strikes. I'm slowly approaching middle-age, and I feel like Shirley Temple's curls: perky, elastic, giddily bobbing up and down, when everyone around me has settled into a tightly woven braid: joyless, stressed, and bound by their choices. 

 

I don't want to be a braid.