“Youth is wasted on the young.”

Little Big Girls: Tori (left) and Quinn

My sister, Tori (aka Torruption), has repeated this George Bernard Shaw quote to me multiple times in the past few months. She mostly uses it to put me in my place when I am complaining and using the term “quarter life crisis” a lot. The first time she whipped out this nugget of wisdom, I made fun of her for being preachy and pretentious, to which she said: “Your middle-aged self is going to hate you for being so stupid and not enjoying your youth and she is going to laugh her ass off at what your current understanding of a crisis is.” The fact that she spoke of my “middle-aged self” as a person entirely separate from who I am now made me feel weird, like maybe I should write this person a letter and introduce myself. And then I made my brain hurt by thinking about how my current notion of crisis would strike me as funny 25 years from now—I hope it’s not funny by crisis-comparison.

Tori used to fit the little sister stereotype perfectly, but then she turned fifteen and decided to revolt against me and all my big sisterness by becoming smarter, bossier, prettier and taller. She is only 20 months younger than me, but it always felt like so much more when we were kids. When I say that Tori used to fit the little sister stereotype, I mean that she wanted to do whatever I wanted to do and she would let me boss her around, too. I think I really took those years for granted because now she is the one bossing me around, telling me what to do with my life and usually trying to help me avoid a generally pathetic existence.

Between the ages of four and nine years old, Tori and I were really into two things: Barbies and playing “Big Girls.” While Barbies was more of a collector’s game, Big Girls was like reality TV before there was reality TV.

I took Big Girls seriously. It was a detail-oriented game that required a powerful imagination to create a realistic world. First, we would dig through our trunk full of dress up clothes, which included old Christmas dresses, Princess costumes from past Halloweens, and no longer stylish pieces from our mother and grandmother’s closets. Dressing up was usually the longest and most intense part of Big Girls, and it was occasionally drawn out by the opportunity to do our hair and makeup as well.

Once the preparation for Big Girls was complete, and we looked scarily like adults, we would then devise our stories.

“Well, my name is Sandra and I am a waitress and a singer,” I would say. Dressed in pink leggings, a blouse dominated by giant shoulder pads and a be-dazzled headband, I was in character—this was an adult version of myself that was entirely invented but also somewhat realistic.

“Okay, well my name is going to be Theresa and I am going to be waitress, too,” our friend Sarah would say. Sarah was our shared best friend and Big Girls was never complete without her (mainly because she had a much older sister that left a lot of really cool “Big Girl Stuff” behind when she went to college).

“I want to be a waitress, too!” Tori would chime in.

“Well what’s your name going to be?”

“Um, Star?”

“That’s stupid, Tori. Your name can be Stephanie.”

I directed the details of Big Girls like it was a Broadway production. This was professional make believe and I was the self-proclaimed expert.

The next step of Big Girls was to stage an everyday, work-related scene. So we would round up all of our kid-size tables and chairs and set them up like a restaurant. We would then go around to tables and have conversations with our “customers.” It didn’t take long before I would be bored with the monotony of the actual waitress duties. So we would start fighting with our fake customers and then we would act out the scene of quitting our waitress jobs, which was always dramatic and usually ended with someone crying and vowing to never return (ever again!).

You see, playing Big Girls wasn’t so much about pretending to be something you actually wanted to be; it was about pretending to be something in order to feel older. Now I am officially older, legally an adult and legitimately stressed out, and I wonder why I ever pretended to feel this way when the reality of it was so near. While I am pretty sure Big Girls appealed to me because of the theatrical aspect (because I am a ham), I know that there was always a part of me that couldn’t wait to grow up, and there still is.

In a way I feel like I never really stopped playing Big Girls because everyday is an intense game of make believe where I pretend to be a writer, a professional, a capable adult—I set up the scenes, get bored, add some drama to spice it up and then sometimes I end up running away crying and vowing never to return. Because of this, I decided to write my “middle-aged self” that letter:

Dear Middle-Aged Quinn,

Remember when you were little and spent the days playing Big Girls? Maybe not, that was a REALLY long time ago for you, and your memory might suck now. Well, anyway, back then I thought that the goal was to feel older, now I know it’s inevitable. So if you feel old now, which you probably do because apparently you’ve had 25 years of crisis-worthy experience to wear you out, try to find solace in the fact that even though you’re not as cute as you used to be, at least you’re not as dumb. I hope you don’t have to pretend anymore, but if you do, I understand—I mean, we are really good at it.

Also, you didn’t waste your youth like Tori (or George Bernard Shaw) said—you just pretended your way through a different, slightly more dramatic, version of it.

Peace out!

Love,
Quarter Life Quinn

p.s. – if you’re really gross and wrinkly now, I’m sorry about all those times I never used sunscreen and all those years I smoked and pretended like it wasn’t bad for me. Don’t be mad at me, I am young and stupid now so that you can be wise and smart later…when it really matters, remember?

p.p.s. – if you got plastic surgery, I am going to pretend to be really pissed at you.