Fitting In

I am not a mature person. I can listen to discussions about politics or feminism or art, I can even contribute to the conversation, I can even be moved by someone’s passion on the subject, but there comes a time when my brain or attention span or whatever (maturity level) shuts down, you know, like the factory at 5pm, everyone leaves the building, all the lights go out, and the final alarm sounds out, then dies down to silence. My body is still there, still staring at the mouth of the person speaking, watching the interesting shapes it makes while the words come out, but my mind is elsewhere, dog heaven for example, rolling in the grass, barking, sniffing asses.

It’s not that I am easily distracted that makes me immature, it’s the subject matter I go to. I’m not proud of it. I am capable of depth and compassion, but after a certain amount of time, the odds are probably against it. You would think children would be a little more tolerant of this trait, but I’ve found actually the opposite to be true. It may be a little upsetting, I think, to see the main person you look to for guidance behaving like an idiot or saying something inappropriate. I get it. I fully support any child who mistrusts a 50 year old doing a hip hop dance.

Mo says, That’s it right there.

What?

You don’t say doing a hip-hop dance.

What do I say then?

(She shakes her head and sighs from the back of her throat.)

Come on.

I’m not going to tell you.

What do I say? I’m hipping and hopping?

Yeah Mom, you say hipping and hopping.

How can you deny that I have excellent moves?

Mmmn Hmm

You can’t deny it.

You’re not bad.

Yes!

You just need to stop talking.

Maybe this isn’t the best example of my immaturity but it sort of shows my desperation to fit in, which is kind of what’s at the heart of being immature.