I have come to the conclusion, upon turning 29 and spending time with a 14 year old, that I have matured in ways I had not previously suspected. Much of the time I feel I could very well be 14 myself, but after experiencing the truly grossly immature habits of a real 14 year old, I can proudly say that I never ever leave gum stuck to my bedside table, so I have definitely evolved into a mature woman.
Having said that, I was recently startled by the depth of my own special reserves of immaturity that I keep deep inside to dip into when necessary. I have a lump and bruise the size of a tennis ball on my right knee to remind me of this.
This is what happened...
Someone touched me. After months (yes over 12 months makes a year but that is too depressing to type) of fending people off (including an over zealous Frenchman) someone touched me and I didn't push them away. I didn't grab hold of them either, I just stopped breathing and wondered what it meant.
It means I am alive. It means even if I can't let anyone in my heart (or the space where it once was - it's like a hologram at this point) that I might be willing to let someone in somewhere else... somewhere more easily accessible.
It wasn't just touching. It was...shirtlessness. The same person thought nothing of stripping off to finish painting a wall, while I lay on his bed watching in awe. Like a pervert.
Having woken up to this I ended up getting mightily confused since the person in question, the aforementioned old friend I shall reference as WK, was alternately intensely affectionate and then forcedly casual to the point that it drove me quite mad. I got so angry with the whole situation that when leaving his house after we ate lunch together one day, I marched out like someone storming out from a big fight, even though he had no idea of how irate his hot and coldness was making me. It had rained heavily and the front stairs of his house were sodden. I slipped and fell unstoppably, earning the enormous bump on my knee that subsequently turned seven shades of purple. And green! And yellow! (Arnica gel helps abate this by the way.)
I was so furious at this unfortunate turn of events that I screamed a blood curdling scream, partly from pain and frustration, but mostly for attention. When this failed to elicit a response from inside the house I clambered up and huffed and puffed my way to the bus stop.
Later that night (and 13 outfits later, give or take) I returned to the house for a big party that was being held in honour of WK's birthday. I barely saw him. He didn't make much effort to talk to me, and I didn't make much effort to talk to him. I was seized with annoyance at his fickleness (I appreciate the irony) and proceeded to drink most or all of the bottle of wine I brought with me. Over 5 or 6 hours it didn't seem too much, but since I spent the last couple of hours sitting on top of a cooler in awfully close quarters with a tall, dark, handsome stranger, it may be that it was rather too much indeed. I don't remember much about the tall, dark, handsome stranger, except that he was cute in that way that you instantly know he's trouble. Despite being trouble, he was not my type. At all. He adored Vancouver. He was Persian! (Persian = extraneous hair, presumably. While I know someone who actively seeks this out, I am definitely not partial to it.)
Then I woke up in WK's bed, having retired early, letting him sleep on the settee. I felt sort of bad about ignoring him at his birthday in favour of the attention of a hairy Vancouverite, and stealing his room, so I got up and proceeded to collect 95% of the discarded beer cans strewn about the house before the others woke up and started cleaning. There were a few cans of some mixed drink called something like Palm, that pertained to be 'a sophisticated drink' on the front of the can. Something tells me if the manufacturers have to write the word sophisticated on the can, a high level of sophistication should not be expected. I didn't try it so I can't tell you, I am far too sophisticated to drink in the mornings. Not to mention too hungover.
Anyway, of all the immaturity I displayed recently, worrying about this situation for a whole week and wailing about it to my friends was the most immature. It all turned out rather differently than I expected.