Reentering Tweendom
I feel as though I am in the sixth grade of my life. Coming hot off the end of elementary school, where I walked down the hallway with my head held high and sported my Case-it binder without a care in the world, I’ve suddenly been thrown into the depths of despair that is middle school. I don’t know where to sit at lunch, I’m embarrassed about my uncontrollable acne, and I can’t fucking reach my top locker. All my friends were sent away to middle schools in other districts and it feels like I’ll never see them again. This girl in eighth grade keeps bullying me about the way I dress, but I’m literally twelve and couldn’t define “a sense of style” if it hit me in the face.
Except I haven’t been twelve in over a decade. I got my driver’s license, I graduated high school, I voted, I left home for college, and now I pay rent. I’m mentally and physically eons away from my middle school self. But spiritually? I’m right back there in those halls. Nothing makes you feel more like a tween than having no idea what you’re doing with your life.
Not that I have no idea what I’m doing—I certainly have some. Still, I am overwhelmed by the feeling of a lifetime unfolding before me of which I am solely in command. There are too many options and not enough, so much time and none at all. I have years to fill, but with what? If I could step back from the helm and let some cooler, wiser eighth grader steer the ship for a while, it would certainly be smoother sailing. They could tell me what to do, who to be, and how to dress. No one ever will and no one ever did when I was actually in sixth grade. I wore a lot of atrocious hooded flannel shirts from Zumiez and figured it out for myself. The only way to avoid such a fate, I suppose, is to join the military or the ministry, which sounds more appealing than ever.
Though I will be so bold as to label my twenties as my “middle school years,” I could not begin to tell you when my “high school years” might kick in. Forties or fifties, when you hit your stride and have an unofficial official seat in the cafeteria? By my logic, I suspect “eighth grade” might be my thirties, but what comes after? Maybe my older readers could weigh in here, because it is a genuine curiosity. No one can be a tween forever. It’s in the name.
There are some liberating aspects of tweendom I’d like to touch on, such as making stupid mistakes, asking stupid questions, and relishing those last bits of childhood. Certain things you can get away with before you become a full-fledged teenager. You can still order off the kid’s menu. You can play on a playground without being too self-conscious about playing on a playground. When you fall asleep on the couch, if you’re lucky, a parent might carry you to your bed. You collect both action figures and makeup products, obsess over both SpongeBob and boybands. You can be awkward and uncomfortable, but also keenly aware that you won’t be this way forever. One day, you will be grown up. But that’s a problem for another version of yourself you haven’t met yet.
It sometimes feels like I’m standing on the edge of an abyss and, in any second, I’ll fall in. I just keep reminding myself that “high school” will come. I will be reunited with my friends from various school districts. My acne will clear temporarily. A sense of style will elude me no longer. Until then, I’m making new friends and learning to appreciate what is mine in this brief moment.
I’m trying my best to embrace my awkward and uncomfortable years. They truly could be a whole lot worse. I could have braces.