Member-only story
25
Growing up, I always wanted to be older. There’s a favourite photo of mine — I am 5; standing in the center of an old sports center in Podolsk (a tiny criminal city on the outskirts of Moscow); wearing my father’s black shades; holding my father’s black briefcase; pretty much looking like a bad kid cosplay on 90s gangster movies (or my father).
When I look at this photo, I see a yearning to grow up, to be taken seriously, to be able to DO stuff, to belong. This yearning lasted all the way into my teenage years (false deep voice, brooding gaze, long overcoat) and then, later, into my early twenties.
When all my friends went out to college and got drunk on most days of the week, I had serious relationships and ‘projects’. I worked and paid the bills and set goals and looked down on those who didn’t. When people asked me about my age, I lied. I took pride in that I stopped hanging out with people my age. I gave unsolicited advice and wrote books and blog posts on how to live. I was 21.
Most of my friends and heroes were in their 30s and 40s and I, being only 21, failed to notice that most of what they talked about still didn’t apply to me. I didn’t want to face the truth: that being 21, even if more emotionally mature than most people my age, I was still, well, 21.
Other people, I realised only recently, also had shit in their lives that taught them something…
