Sarah, Cheryl and I are no longer the 3 year olds we used to be - doh. We are proud to proclaim that we do not wet our beds, suck our thumbs or wear squeaky shoes that our parents thought were fashionable. We no longer attend church in our pyjamas as we used to do in primary school because getting up earlier than 15 minutes before church was just too early. We no longer drink from the milkbottle although I still remember exactly how much I drank; 3 scoops of milk powder, 1 scoop of chocolate malt (Milo) and 6 ounzes of water. We no longer beg for rides home from senior youth members who can drive. Instead we're being begged to drive them home. We no longer speak the lingo and we repeat everything our parents used to tell us to anyone who will listen. We shoulder responsibilities, feel tired by 10pm and have to think of what to prepare for breakfast the next day. We look at the younglings in church and wonder why they worry about certain things which seem so minute until we realise we worried about the exact same things when we were their age.
The best test of our age old wisdom came tonight when we went to Cheryl's new house and tried to unlock her wardrobe. The key was no where to be found so we tried to open the door the old fashion way; by force and a bit of brain power.
How many girls does it take to open a locked wardrobe?
About half an hour (or was it an hour) later, we had tried using most girlified equipment to open the door - cardboard, hairclips, safety pin, clothes hanger, light from the back of a mobile phone, even a pair of tweezers because a pair of manly pliers could not be found. Eventually, the door was forced open! Hooray for the over 20s locked door challenge champions...