I have to change the radio station to the adult contemporary station because I can't listen to hip hop at 10:30am. The combination of bass and high-pitched-synthesized notes irrationally irritates; I hit the "tune" button harder than I intend. And then the same with gas pedal at the end of my driveway until I realize the bush on the corner now obstructs all view of the gravel leading to the neighbor's house. Too late to hit the break, I am actually relieved at the empty driveway. If a lead foot and a loud bass made me feel better at sixteen (I'm not sure it did), then I'm going to have to find a different outlet at twenty six. I'm not sure why this surprises me. Or why I'm surprised at the lack of weeds springing up in our concrete driveway. Or how much I still dislike the adult contemporary station - I spent too many hours listening to it in the orthodontist chair having my braces tightened.
What has changed, and what hasn't? How long am I going to be here - do I have to figure this out?
I'm fighting sixteen year old irrationality with adult choices, like going to Big Y and purchasing my own coffee pot. Because if I have to work my way out of this new maze, I'm going to need some coffee. If I am going to transition HOME, I am going to need some coffee. If I want to feel twenty six, and unemployed, and nearly addicted to 90210 re-runs, rather than sixteen and seeking summer employment and nearly addicted to 90210 re-runs, I am going to need some coffee.
"You are not sixteen anymore." It's nearly an out-loud chant before I look around my car. Black steering wheel, not gray. Dark seats, not light. It's not my '82 Toyota Corolla of ten years ago. The coffee I was drinking on my way home last night still sits in the console. Gross, sure, but also reassuring. I find the CD I've had on repeat for the past few months. It's still there. Right where it was yesterday. Right. where. it. was. yesterday. I pop it in. Take a deep breath. And then I'm twenty six again, running to the store to fill a coffee addiction, listening to an arrangement of notes that didn't exist ten years ago. And I remember: I am so many things I wasn't ten years ago.
