#MyFirst…Kiss (Or Being Almost 20 And Still Waiting For One)

Each week Kerri Sackville is running a series titled “My First”. This week the theme is My First Kiss. I decided to add my thoughts. 

My name is Georgie, I am nineteen years, nine months old, and I have never been kissed.

I know. In a world of Tinder, Cosmo, and casual hookups, I’m still sitting at the kiddie table.

I’m not sure how it got to this point. I never intended for it to. In my young imagination I was going to have the Real High School Experience, complete with huge parties and lots of making out. But I suppose along the way I was ‘blessed’ with social anxiety and Saturday nights spent partying turned into Saturday nights spent in bed, fearing the outside world. It’s a bit hard to be kissed when you’re too scared to talk to anyone of the opposite sex.

Meggie Royer, in her wonderful piece “For Twenty Year Olds Who Have Never Been Loved”, writes:

All of a sudden two decades have passed and you still have not kissed anyone with tongue, or kissed anyone at all for that matter, or had a 3 AM conversation with someone who would rather look into your eyes for ten minutes straight than talk.

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Today is my nineteenth birthday. 


Far out, I feel old. 

For the first time in my life, I was not excited for my birthday this year. Eighteen was a pleasant enough age, I could do everything without being considered too old. I liked eighteen, not as much as seventeen, but I still liked it. But no, the world has to rotate around the sun and our stupid human ageing system marks me as a year older. 

Other than being able to legally drink in Canada, there is nothing special about nineteen. It’s a nothing age. Barely considered a teenager, but not the exciting parts of being an adult (are there exciting parts of adulthood? Because so far I’m just poor and spending my days being forced to read 17th century texts). . 

I just feel that by nineteen I should be accomplishing more than I have. That something more should be happening in my life. Nineteen is the first age where I’ve felt old, and I don’t like it. 

Okay, so I’ve done some pretty cool things in my life, but I’m a chronic comparer, and I can’t help but notice how much more everyone else seems to be able to achieve by their nineteenth birthdays. Some of them even manage to have paid (!!) magazine jobs. I just feel so…unproductive. 

In a conversation with some of my friends, I decided I should be turning twelve again this year. I act like a twelve year old most of the time, and if I was twelve, that would mean next year, instead of turning the dreaded age of twenty (I’m having nightmares already), that I would get to be thirteen again. Do all those silly teenage years over again, but with wisdom and hindsight. 

Quite frankly, I didn’t enjoy being a teenager. I didn’t do any of the stereotypical teenager-y things, and spent most of the six years (so far) on the internet. But I liked being able to say I was only fifteen, or still sixteen to people when I did accomplish things. It felt like I was achieving big things at a young age, and I liked that. 

But now I’m nineteen, and it’s expected for me to be a fully functioning adult. I just feel like nothing I do any more will be special, because it will be just what adults do. And as the years seem to be ticking away faster and faster, I begin to wonder if I will ever meet any of my dreams and goals. People my age are getting married, I’m still waiting for my first boyfriend. 

I’m having my quarter-life-crisis six years early. 

So happy birthday to me, I’m feeling a lot older, and not much wiser, and I kind of wish people would just give me presents and cake without the responsibility of actually ageing. 

frangipani princess xoxo
ps. For some less depressing birthday reads, you can check out what I had to say on my fifteenth and sixteenth birthdays. I was so naive. 

Notes From A University Student

You are now reading the blog of an official university student. I have the ID card and everything to prove it. 
Since you last heard from me I’ve made the big move, seven hours north, to my new home at The University of Sydney. I’ve also survived O-Week, begun two internships, and completed an entire week of classes (well, not quite because tutes don’t begin until Monday, and classes today were cancelled due to a strike. But still.) 

So far, everything is going splendidly. The people at college are lovely, my lecturers are interesting, and I adore living in Sydney. There have been moments of homesickness, but then I look out my window and think, “oh yeah, you’re finally starting to live your dream life” and I get happy again. 

The only downsides are the expense of public transport (this wouldn’t be a problem if I didn’t insist on interning and frequent trips to purchase fast food), and the fact that I have to do my own laundry. I’m pretty sure one of these days everything is going to end up accidentally dyed a hideous shade. 

I apologise for the quietness on the blogging front over the last few weeks. At first I had to pack, and say goodbye to friends and family, and then once I moved in, I really wanted to try and focus on settling in and not locking myself in my room with a laptop. 

Never fear, regular blogging shall commence immediately, and I hope you enjoy the tales from my new life. 

frangipani princess xoxo