A good, ripe age for growing up.
Building up that résumé for a more worthy time.
Add up those service hours.
What do you mean you were not a President of this and that?
Award after award after award.
Need more awards.
It does not stop getting competitive.
To be honest, I didn’t know it would never end.
When I was seventeen,
I was at the good, ripe age for growing up.
And getting out.
Built up my résumé until it weighed more than myself,
And I pushed the limit when it came to service.
No, I wasn’t the President.
More like Captain.
More like Editor-in-Chief.
But back then,
If anyone had to be jealous of me,
I hope it wasn’t because if my competitive nature,
That I so regretfully wish was not thrust upon me.
I wanted them to rue the day they ever doubted me.
And my high metabolism.
Honestly, I would secretly laugh inside,
As I pulled out each meal.
Yes, my momma and my daddy…
They started packing me lunch,
During my Senior Year.
The good, ripe age of:
When I would dig out my lunch box,
Filled with gourmet meals of:
Tightly packed steak wraps.
Chilled cans of coconut juice.
Soups of a more delicate craft.
Salads and sliced fruit.
I hope they were jealous of that,
More than anything else.
The rest of the competition didn’t matter.