The Buzz

Seventeen

I hate being seventeen. Seventeen is the age where you’re everything and nothing at the same time. You’re old enough to drive, but not old enough to vote. You’re old enough to fire a gun, but not old enough to possess one. You’re old enough to order off of the adults menu, but not old enough to order a drink. You’re treated like an adult, but at the same time, you’re treated like a child. Being seventeen is like scoring a 99% on a test. You’re almost there, but not quite.

Today was the day that my mom, aunt, and grandparents all got matching tattoos: Another thing that I wasn’t old enough to do. Why would they want a seventeen-year-old coming with them? All I’ll do is be seventeen. An obstacle to adult fun.

“I don’t want to go.” My tone of voice lowers like a cat’s ears when they’re sad.

“Why not?” My mom turns her attention away from the adults, and onto the seventeen-year-old. The child of the group.

“Because I can’t do anything,” I say. “It’s not fun to watch my family get a tattoo when I can’t get one.”

“You’ll be able to get one in a year when you’re eighteen. You’ll understand the fun then.”

That was the line I was afraid of. I was constantly compared to that of an eighteen-year-old, when I was only seventeen. Though turning eighteen was only a year away, it felt like an eternity when I was constantly reminded of my age.

I was technically able to get a tattoo, with both parents’ consent that is. Of course, my father was brainwashed by his girlfriend to not allow me to get one. She believed that I was too young to understand the severity of getting a permanent tattoo. Because what does the seventeen-year-old know anyways?

My mom was convinced that bringing me to the tattoo parlor would introduce me to the fun of tattoo art. However, that was far from the truth. It would just remind me of what being seventeen feels like. Ignored, innocent, and immature, like a seventeen-year-old baby.

She brought me in, along with my aunt and my grandparents. The tattoo artist checked them in, and looked at me.

“One for the kid?” He laughed, and my family laughed along with him, while I completely buried my face in my arms to hide my red cheeks of embarrassment.

“Not yet. Maybe when she turns eighteen, but not yet.” My mom smiled at him, and I groaned.

Why does my family always treat me like I’m five? I’m not five. I’m seventeen.

My family was taken into the studio to get their tattoos done, while I was left to sit in the waiting area.

“Do you want like… candy or something?” The tattoo artist asks me, paying little to no attention to my existence.

“…I’m good.” I made it clear that I was not interested in this childish behavior. I did not want to feed into the expectations that my peers held for me. I felt babied, and I hated it. I hate being seventeen.