Staring open-mouthed at 17 in my Buddy Holly glasses, chinstrap beard, espresso-stained insides, putrid Chuck Taylors and newsprint-smudged fingertips, I wondered what had happened to the world into which I was hoping to enter so well rehearsed.
I used to be 11. Occasionally, I am 11 again. I’m OK with that. I have a theory that by the time people reach 13 they’ve experienced every age they will ever experience in their lifetimes; 14 does not exist.