I was walking down Claremont to 116th the other day and I realized how comfortable I am with my life at the moment. It's an odd sensation of knowing where I am and having a rough idea of where I am going. Last year was a period of transition, and I was somewhat comfortable with my discomfort. There were troubled periods, but perfectly acceptable, expected troubles for a fresh-faced freshman in the big city.
Now that I am no longer that girl--more comfortable in my life here, daring anyone on the street to deny me the title of a genuine New Yorker, more accepting of college as a way of life--I grow uncomfortable in my comfort. I am quickly running out of reasons to deny adulthood. I wonder if that is even a valid fear. I guess there is the Peter Pan complex; and if Disney made a movie about it, it certainly must be true. On the other hand, do adults ever really grow up? Or do they just get better at hiding it?