Sometimes I think back on my life a few years ago, say 6, when I was 10. I try to remember what 10 year old me thought my life would be like at 16. I think I imagined that at 16 I would have a St. John’s-type boyfriend who would be nice and kind and take me out on dates in his car and throw pebbles at my window and sing me songs on his guitar. Ha. As if. But you know what, is that even who I am and what I would want even if that was a real thing? No. That’s not really who I am and who I’ve become. And I’m not blaming 10 year old me for not knowing that, how would I have known then how hard it is to find a guy in Shrewsbury who fits even one of those descriptions? Or that I wouldn’t be the kind of girl that would even want a boyfriend like that. The kind of girl I thought I would be listened to Kiss 108, went to Homecoming and football games and painted my fingernails all the same color. The real me doesn’t do any of those things, and she knows that she doesn’t need a boyfriend (but wouldn’t be upset if she had one). Would ten year old me be disappointed? Maybe a little. But, I think she would be proud to know that 16 year old me has self-confidence, can cook, a group of friends that she actually likes most of the time, a job that pays over minimum wage, good grades and pretty bright future ahead.

But what about me in 6 years, 22 year old me? By 22 I’ll (hopefully) be out of undergrad, working somewhere I like, my own apartment, possibly a steady boyfriend and a strong group of friends. But, I guess life never works out as it’s planned, so we’ll see.