Hell to the No

So with my school's senior graduation happening this past Tuesday, I found myself a bit nostalgic and reminiscing about my own exit from high school and subsequent college years. And I came to a conclusion.

I was a total idiot.

Just because someone handed me a piece of paper that stated that I had completed the prerequisite math, science, english and most importantly, home ec classes necessary to finish high school, there was no evidence whatsoever that I was ready to take charge of my own life and make my own decisions.

In fact, all evidence pointed to the contrary.

Like my all-polyester wardrobe my senior year. Lime green and brown hued outfits that screamed "Future Walmart Employee" carried me through 180 days of school. There is not one picture that I can proudly display for my grandchildren someday.

My cigarette addiction. Yep. I was the badass that lit up like an imbecile and thought I was cool. I spent way too much time at a local coffee shop smoking like a chimeny and making friends with people who also shared my affinity for polyester. I wrote dark poetry in a bent notebook and waited to be discovered.

The only person that ever discovered me was my mother, who caught on to my little schedule and who would drag me, by the ear, back to my Econ class.

I got a student visa the moment I turned 18 and proceeded to go PAST my $700.00 dollar limit (which sounded like a million bucks at the time) in one afternoon at the local mall. I don't recall what I purchased but I do know that when the bills came I found the space under my bed to be a great filing/storage area.

I crawled out the Den window when my curfew did not coincide with my important plans, which usually began well after 11:00 p.m (a sure sign of an evening headed for trouble), almost always included some sort of questionable activity, and ended sometime when the sun began to rise.

I spoke in a God-awful british accent in order to gain access to bars and clubs and though it worked most of the time, my friends were horribly embarrassed and annoyed by my ameatur impersonations. Princess Diana I was not.

And that is only a mere glimpse as to why I disagree with the American sentiment that once a child turns 18 they are legally in their own hands.

Seriously?? Someone somewhere made a profound mistake when that law was passed. I needed way more intervention and guidance at 18 than I ever did at 9. I was a calm, cool, collected nine year old who had smart friends, loved to roller skate, and ate all of her Pickle Soup. But man, once 18 hit, I was a train wreck. I say let them go off into the wild yonder in third grade, where they quickly realize they can't live without you so that when 18 comes they still hang onto every word, trust every judgment you make, and cuddle with you while watching Sponge Bob Squarepants.

That, folks, is my idea of the American dream.

And if that doesn't work, and Superman or Monchichi appear to be showing any signs of independent thinking, I plan to squash it immediately with a steady stream of good old fashioned fear-based brainwashing.

Because that is what a good Mother does.