I stand over my sheet cake from the grocery store. Clad in an oversized sweatshirt with puffy paint splattered on it in pastel colors, I move my gel-soaked (à la 80s one-hit-wonder Samantha Fox), crunchy spiral-permed hair out of my face and readjust my roller skate clad feet to maintain my balance.
Next year, I will be in the double digits, I think to myself.
At nine-years-old, I was already ready to become a grown-up. To own those double-digit numbers like the champ I knew I was.
But, at that young age, at Wheel-A-While with my elementary school friends, that grown-up life seemed a lifetime away.
I’d look at my parents, in their 30s, and think to myself: I’ll never get to that age. It’s SO. FAR. AWAY.