A Grown-up Six Year-old

When I am teaching or around other adults, I usually feel pretty young. But sometimes I have these really adult sort of moments, the kind that would have perplexed and disappointed the six year old that I once was. I was determined to stay young and play with toys forever, never sitting around having hour long conversations (what is there to talk about for so long anyway?). Not only did I fail to meet my childhood dream of living with Jessica Davis on a horse farm, I have become a boring adult at only (almost) twenty-three.
Evidence: Today I bought shelves for my kitchen, and I was really excited. I opened them and put them together as soon as I got home, then I spent the whole afternoon cleaning and organizing and rearranging my kitchen. And I had fun. It was the same thrill as building forts in the backyard or dressing up Barbies or escaping from an evil stepmother in the middle of a raging hurricane (with probably a war, a fire, and a daring horse-race thrown in for good measure).
It’s moments like those, or when I exchange recipes with my friends, or basically every time I buy vegetables, that I really wonder when I stopped being six.