The Age of Innocence

And, I am back… I am finally getting over my strep throat, which I suffered through like a baby. A good blogger would have used this unexpected time off work to work on an entry, but all I could think of is what would I be willing to sacrifice to make this awful ear ache go away. The questions begin with the usual : “Would you be willing to lose half of your pinky toe?” The answer, so far, is “No!” “Would you be willing to live ten minutes further away from the city than you do now?” “No way!” (Note, this answer has been constant regardless of my distance from the city at the time) I get bored with the questions after about three or four, as clearly, I am not ready to give up much. More importantly, no one is offering me any deals, and I should probably check my temperature and get on with feeling sorry for myself.


My amazing parents rushed from Brooklyn to Westchester to make me some magical chicken soup my mother refers to as “Jewish penicillin.” I felt lucky, loved, and about fifteen. Then I remembered that I am not fifteen, but still felt lucky and loved. Then I felt not fifteen at all, not even nineteen… I mostly felt NOT. It dawned on me that now is my real age of innocence. The years traditionally referred to as the age of innocence seem more like a time of ignorance and delusions. The real search begins once you’ve been deconstructed, classified and filed by time and events and not just by the little crazies (that’s a real scientific term for you) in your head.

Recently, someone accomplished and successful gave me feedback on my writing. “How old are you?” she asked. “Twenty-six,” I answered. Pause. “So…not so young,” I added reluctantly. Pause. “Not so old either,” she added, also reluctantly. We both were thinking: “You really should have your shit together by now.”


The last few years have drafted an extensive list of things I am not and things I will not be. Disappointing? Today, it is almost liberating.

I have learned to accept that I will always have insecurities. This is very different from embracing your insecurities or accepting your shortcomings. I, on the contrary, have made peace with the fact that I will always be unsatisfied with certain aspects of self. It’s kind of like accepting that you are neurotic… which you shouldn’t – there are many treatment options.

P.S. Being fifteen sucks, of course. And I do have the most important part figured out, fanofpolinaland.