I am constantly internally challenged by the concept that I am only twenty-something and still, by all intents and purposes, in the prime of my youth.

I’m not much of a drinker, am bored with getting glammed up and the thought of “going out” fills me with abject dread. It appears I missed the memo that went out to all people my age reading something along the lines of:

“Dear Young Person,

Party hard, have meaningless sex and push the boundaries of life’s wick by burning the candle at both ends.

Yours Always (but not forever),

Life.”

It takes a lot to coax me out of my cave (a.k.a. my warm and cosy home) where I spend hours in my favorite place in the entire world—the bath.

Last week I spent so long in the tub I think I may have actually shrunk a couple of centimeters. But what I lost in height I gained in spirit, emerging from the bathroom at my brightest, bushiest and rosiest.

There is something about a bath that shines up even the most miserable of situations. Like when I finished the last book in the Harry Potter series and realized I would never get to visit Hogwarts again. Or when that horrific accident took Mary’s love away from her in Downton Abbey. Poor Mary. Poor me. Until I hopped into the bath and all the miserableness seeped out of my pores.

When I’m not in the bath I’m tucked up on the couch with my crocheted blanket and a cup of tea. More often than not I am nibbling on home baked cookies and sipping from a cup of freshly brewed rose tea while immersed in a world of someone else’s imagining.

Bed Time is strictly before 10 o’clock at night and The Yawning sets by about 8:30pm. Any time I do venture out of my house at night I am making excuses by 9pm to ensure I’m snug under my duvet on time.

Yes, I am often perplexed by the common pursuits of the usual twenty-something year old.

The partying. The raving. The loud music and wild dancing. All that dating.

I look at my peers in awe, wondering what makes them tick. Much the same as an astronomer examines the starry sky for clues that may unravel the mysteries of the world.

(All this from a distance of course, god forbid I may need to leave the comforts of my cave.)

So it appears to me that over the past few years, while my peers have been aging at the usual rate of one year a year, I have been aging at the much faster pace of twenty years a year! I wonder if being like a grandmother at this age is genetic or if I’m just some human anomaly like Benjamin Button?

You may think I’m crazy to miss out on the recklessness of youth by reveling in my nanna-ish-ness at such an early age, but I sit smugly in the knowledge that my aversion to such youth-relative nonsense is incredibly good for my health.

That’s right, being an early-onset Nanna is proven to be beneficial for mental, emotional and physical health. Well, more specifically, fostering quietness and stillness holds all those benefits but really I shouldn’t need to explain how they are linked to my current lifestyle choices.

My predisposition towards nanna-ish-ness is keeping my body nourished, my mind hushed and my heart full. This alone should be enough of a benefit to convert even the most party-hungry young adult into at least a part-time Nanna.

Perhaps not.

In any case, until I untangle the mysteries of age-appropriate behavior I’ll just have to keep my nanna-isms in check.

For example, I will continue reminding myself that taking a hot water bottle to the cinema is considered more than a little odd.

I will attempt to freshly retain the memory of withering glares from adults of all ages when I mistakenly call them Deary or Petal.

And I’ll try to remember that there is probably more perspective in the world than what I peer at from the edge of my bathtub.

~

Relephant Read:

This is the Best Possible Age to Be.

~

Author: Sarah Kolkka

Editor: Alli Sarazen

Photo: Jason Devaun/Flickr