by Sydney Morrison ’13

What frustrates me greatly about society is its fascination with age. All our lives are mapped out according to the number of years we’ve been on this planet. Age five? Welcome to school. 16? Get behind a wheel. 18? Woah, someone’s magically an adult now.

What I want to know is: who came up with these numbers? Who decided that when I turn 25 I’m allowed to drive a rental car? It’s so preposterous, at least to me, that an amount of time can dictate what we get to do. It formulates who we become in society; you have people judging you everywhere you go because of your age. I am constantly looked down upon by those who are older than me because I’m “only” 17. Just because someone has been around longer than I have doesn’t necessarily make them smarter than me.

I have never cared for age. I don’t care how old you are, and I am sick of putting my birth date on every form I have to fill out. And birthdays are such a big deal to everyone. Do you really need a reason to eat cake and party? It’s called Friday (really, there’s a song about it). What’s funny is that once you become “middle-aged” everyone goes, “oh no, don’t celebrate my birthday!” But why does it matter? Why do people let their age define them?

If I am nothing more than a mere digit to everyone around me, why should I try at anything? I don’t want my age to restrain my abilities. I don’t have to be dumb because I’m “just a kid.” And I most certainly do not have to act mature once I hit the big 1-8.

When people ask me how old I am, honestly, I usually lie. Because who cares? Don’t act your age. Be bigger than just a number.