The other day my roommate said, “Sara, can you believe it? We’re in college! We go to relief society! We aren’t young women anymore, we are women!”
She beamed at me, and I smiled wanly, hoping that I hadn’t blown my cover.
My roommate turned back to her homework, humming contentedly. I too returned to my homework, my hands a little sweatier than before. There was something my roommate couldn’t know, something no BYU administrator can ever know.
I have a secret.
Did you know that BYU does not let children come to their school? It’s the fifth rule in the BYU’s Underappreciated Rulebook for Poor Students, or BURPS. It clearly states that all students must possess adult-like qualities in order to be accepted into BYU.
The problem is, I’m not an adult.
Oh, sure, I may be physically old enough to go to college, unless my doctor has been lying to me all these years. But mentally I’m a giggly little girl who doesn’t belong in the “big people” school. I managed to slip through the system by faking maturity, which I have been doing since grade school. It’s not too difficult, really. I just have to nod when someone else talks, restrain myself from throwing my food at the ceiling to see how long it sticks, and pretending I enjoy sophisticated things like stiletto heels and beach volleyball.
So far my immaturity has passed by unnoticed, but I can’t keep it a secret forever. Sometimes it slips out against my will. For instance, I can’t help but snort with laughter when I hear words like “poop,” “burp,” and “more poop.” Grownups don’t think poop is a funny word. I know this because I yelled “poop” at my mom and she just stared at me (like “poop” isn’t a perfectly acceptable word to yell in Nordstrom’s).
I’m sure that in accordance with BURPS, the school will soon conduct a campus-wide “immaturity hunt”, where they will line the students up and yell “POOP!” at each one in turn to see if they laugh. The moment I catch wind of the surprise inspection, I’m hopping on my tricycle and peddling my way to a land where it is acceptable for adults to watch Barbie movies and wear pajamas with feet in them, somewhere where I will not have to pretend I enjoy ridiculous things like volleyball (seriously, it hurts my little arms). Until then, I’m laying low and working the system for as long as I can. Just don’t tell BYU. Or my roommate.