2008 Woodie Awards
So, another year passes
Amber Chemam
Issue date: 1/29/08 Section: Opinion
I have this habit of counting time.
My first ear-marked moment was a Sunday evening; I was in the fifth grade, on my parents' sofa, watching the Disney version of "Pocahontas." I decided that, on a whim, I would mentally flag this very second, as if with an imaginary Post-It note, to forever remind me that said particular moment once existed and now was gone.
I went on marking time for many years, and each time I did, I was reminded of how much time had past since the last marking. It was, perhaps, this habit that created in me a completely irrational fear of time and its passage.
This is because I resolved, years ago, that I never wanted to grow old. I did, however, desperately want to grow up-- as if there were a way to do one without the other.
I happily raced through the awkward years of adolescence and never looked back as all four years of high school sped by, lagging only around the most painful and unpleasant experiences. I waited impatiently for 18, 19, 20 to pass and, then, gleefully celebrated the arrival of 21. It was the year I had resolved that adulthood would become a reality, while still maintaining hope for the countless opportunities that the future held.
At 21, freezing time became more an obsession than a hobby. I had found the year with which I wanted to identify. Young and carefree and even a little invincible, I could do and be anything. Additionally, the power of a horizontal I.D. card went right to my head, and I believed that I could walk amongst the big folks, now. I was a grown-up.
Twenty-one was, indeed, a great year. It was the year that I stopped feeling like a little girl playing dress-up in my mother's heels. It was also the first year my feet really started to hurt.
By the time that year ended, panic had begun to set in. As my college career wound down, I felt cheated. Within just a quick 12 months, it seemed that my list of opportunities had been cut in half, without my having ever realized it.
My first ear-marked moment was a Sunday evening; I was in the fifth grade, on my parents' sofa, watching the Disney version of "Pocahontas." I decided that, on a whim, I would mentally flag this very second, as if with an imaginary Post-It note, to forever remind me that said particular moment once existed and now was gone.
I went on marking time for many years, and each time I did, I was reminded of how much time had past since the last marking. It was, perhaps, this habit that created in me a completely irrational fear of time and its passage.
This is because I resolved, years ago, that I never wanted to grow old. I did, however, desperately want to grow up-- as if there were a way to do one without the other.
I happily raced through the awkward years of adolescence and never looked back as all four years of high school sped by, lagging only around the most painful and unpleasant experiences. I waited impatiently for 18, 19, 20 to pass and, then, gleefully celebrated the arrival of 21. It was the year I had resolved that adulthood would become a reality, while still maintaining hope for the countless opportunities that the future held.
At 21, freezing time became more an obsession than a hobby. I had found the year with which I wanted to identify. Young and carefree and even a little invincible, I could do and be anything. Additionally, the power of a horizontal I.D. card went right to my head, and I believed that I could walk amongst the big folks, now. I was a grown-up.
Twenty-one was, indeed, a great year. It was the year that I stopped feeling like a little girl playing dress-up in my mother's heels. It was also the first year my feet really started to hurt.
By the time that year ended, panic had begun to set in. As my college career wound down, I felt cheated. Within just a quick 12 months, it seemed that my list of opportunities had been cut in half, without my having ever realized it.