22 yrs.

12 years ago, 22 seemed old. Seemed is obviously the operative word. Everything always seems big when you're a little over 4 feet tall, and that's why age 22 seemed like a big deal. 22 was one of the many ages that I associated with wisdom; basically, 22 was old and I was intimidated by that number (remember, I was 10 when I thought this). It's also important to note that I entertained this silly idea just a few years after realizing that babies didn't come out of bellybuttons...still, I find myself surprised at how I've failed to live up to my childhood expectations that I'd be a wise old woman at the ripe age of 22. Nope, I'm not exactly anywhere close to ripe. Though if you did compare me to a piece of fruit, I'd be in that deciding stage where I could either go sweet or sour; in spite of the few bruises I acquired as a result of being dropped one too many times in the produce aisle of life. To carry this analogy even further, right now, it kind of feels like I'm in a fruit basket. I am surrounded by a bunch of overly ripened bananas that are ready to be thrown into a bowl of ingredients that'll make for a nice loaf of banana bread. But I'm not a banana. Nope. I am a kiwi. I am fuzzy and brown, but colorful on the inside, if you only take the time to peel off my weird layer of protective but necessary skin.