When I was 12 we lived in an apartment block opposite some friends of ours who also moved from England. The short amount of time we spent in that complex was filled with trips to the pool, bike rides through the neighborhood and barbeque's on the balcony.
At the time I had a healthy imagination and a hatred of getting older. While my interest in the Peter Pan story hadn't developed yet, the whole concept of aging bothered me something chronic. I didn't want to get older, I didn't want to grow up and while most kids would want lavish Birthday parties thrown in their honor, I would often end up crying in my room, lamenting the gradual tick of the clock that would bring me into the world of teen-dom and the misery that comes with it.
My 12th Birthday is perhaps the most memorable I ever had. Not because I know what we did as a family or what kind of cake I had, but because of the one vivid picture I have in my brain of me as a twelve year old. I was skinny with long legs and long bright red hair that fell down my back(my body sadly went south once I hit my teens). I stared around at the stark, builders white walls of my temporary room, looked at the day bed pushed against the wall and the new Penguin lamp that sat on my bedside table, it's blank eyes staring at me and I cried as though nothing would ever be right with the world again.
That feeling has forever followed me on my Birthday, in inevitable sense of dread that has nothing to do with gifts and cake. I normally have a lovely time of my birthday, but on the eve of my 26th Birthday I still remember that twelve year old girl and still think the same. I don't want to grow up!
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