When I was in fifth grade, one of the girls in my class started wearing makeup. Her smudged mascara and sparkly, pink lip-gloss incited a jealousy in me like no other. You see, my mom wouldn’t let me wear makeup. What I wouldn’t have given to have pink goo smeared all over my mouth! The worst thing about this fervent desire to wear makeup was that I didn’t want to wear it for myself. I didn’t want to wear it for boys either. I didn’t even want to wear it to impress the other girls in my grade. I wanted to wear makeup so that people would think I was older than I was. In fifth grade, I was tall for my age. This caused many people to think I was already older than the mere age of eleven. The rush of happiness I felt when an adult asked me if I was a seventh or even an eight grader was like no other. As a result of my height at such a young age, I was forced to grow up clothing wise. As a result of numerous growth spurts, I was quickly outgrowing the kids’ department. I was ecstatic. I could finally stop wearing those Justice skorts and sparkly t-shirts and move on to the wide world jeggings, tunics, and wide belts. The fact that my wardrobe matched more what a teenager would wear than what a shy preteen would wear only encouraged people to think that I was older than I actually was. And I loved it. Every ill-fitting, patterned, fit-and-flare dress and pair of kitten heels made me feel like I could conquer the world. And that’s not a bad thing. But I should have been a child while I was a child.