During my childhood and teenage years, the forward march of time elicited an intoxicating sense of excitement. It evoked the allure of reaching my 20s and the glamour and sophistication of adult experiences, as embodied in television shows like Friends and Sex and the City. My friends and I daydreamed of a future where we would exchange our tumultuous adolescence for mature indulgences like coffee and cocktails.
However, as I approach my mid-20s, the flow of time now incites an unprecedented sense of shock. Upon visiting my old school recently, I was jolted by new installations in the canteen and surprisingly different uniform jumpers. I was disconcerted to discover that familiar classrooms had been refurbished and that the seniors’ common room had been relocated to the lower floor. The transformations seemed taunting, ribbing at my hitherto unquestioned perception of my personal youthfulness and its emboldened eagerness reminiscent of my 17-year-old self.
Standing amid the familiar yet unfamiliar settings of my alma mater, I grappled with how such changes could have taken place in my absence. More perturbingly, I probed the manner in which I had personally evolved without these familiar experiences and environments. Showered with a rush of memories from my school years, I experienced a profound epiphany about the subtle and consistent manners in which I have matured since my departure. The striking realization of the sheer amount of time that had elapsed left me questioning whether it was possible to feel so vintage at such a tender age.
My mid-20s seem to be embroiled in disbelief and deep mistrust. Confronting my evolved youthfulness feels puzzling and unsettling. The contours of this transformative phase remain blurry, making its onset and termination unclear. Yet, standing in the corner of my old science lab and reflecting on my journey through time, I could distinctly sense being in the midst of this challenging phase.
Even before visiting my school, I had brief encounters with this so-called quarter-life crisis. For instance, when my Google Drive storage became full recently, I was more baffled by the realization that I had lived enough to exhaust the storage capacity than by the fee for additional space. The prospect of limitless cyber storage once promised by the setting up of that account now seemed like a distant dream.
The realisation that many of today’s pop idols are younger than me brought on a wave of reflection. How quickly did I find myself advancing towards that dreaded “above-25s” bracket from my days of daydreaming about X Factor stardom? This was another stark indication that I had somewhat matured.
Returning to my former school incited an alien feel. Despite its familiarity, my adult presence felt out of place. Confronting actual teenagers forced me to come to terms with the fact that I wasn’t an adolescent inhabiting an adult’s body. The sight of their straightened hair and modified uniforms were an in-your-face reminder of our distinct contrasts.
Instead of identifying with them, I was engulfed by a cringe-inducing air of condescension. The thought of their yet unexplored world elicited a sense of pitiful superiority in me. How naive their youthful confidence seemed and how sheltered, with so many memories yet to make and experiences yet to discover!
Visiting the school did two things: it made me rather unbearable, and it served as a physical manifestation of my growing paranoia about the relentless passage of time. When I dramatically voiced my fears to my cousin, she dismissed it, offering a more positive take on this phase as “a new type of youthfulness.”
She, now a house owner herself, admitted that being old enough to choose blinds and floorboards felt bizarre. Yet, she insisted that this very reality of fulfilling long-held dreams and ambitions only enhanced the thrill. Her success tasted even sweeter due to years of anticipation.
Her perspective seemed a healthier approach to time passing. It reminded me that ageing is a two-way process. It involves progression as much as retrospection, which inevitably is more engaging than any single-dimensional vision of the future some naïve teenager might harbour.
As I stood in my former school, oblivious to the ins and outs of my youthful era drawing to a close, I found myself recoiling at my own emergence into adulthood, subduing any maturity that seven years may have bestowed upon me. The chill of the classroom’s linoleum flooring was all too evident. Further, the new uniforms failed to be to my liking.
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