You were born an old soul. You are a healer and a poet. Your patience is as wide, deep, and placid as a mountain lake. You are so far above it all, yet you are too humble to ever get arrogant about it. You are the den mother to the entire world. Will you please adopt me?
You are regal, elegant, patient, and calm. You are so wise that when people come to you for advice—which is constantly—you just smile gently and say, “Dear, I think you already know the answer to that question.” You see the big picture and focus on the end game. You realize that losing patience only means you lose precious minutes of your life. You are so much more mature than I am, it makes me want to throw a tantrum.
The reason you hold the scales of justice is because you are the epitome of fairness. You’re able to admit you’re wrong without swallowing your pride. You’re able to apologize when you feel you’ve slighted someone. You seek to heal and make peace and make people happy. You don’t get into internet arguments or even many real-life arguments. Like a fine wine, you are sophisticated, mellow, and cultured.
You are as chill as the ice cubes floating peacefully in a Scotch and Soda. You can slip into the occasional screaming-toddler mood when you experience a sudden and unexpected disappointment, and that’s when you put on your baby bonnet and grab your baby rattle. So there’s the occasional dark cloud, but mostly you’re just one big springtime meadow of sweetness and sunshine.
Mostly you’re as well-mannered as a teacher in a ballerina class, but every once in a while, a bit of pettiness will emerge. Hate to break it to ya, but you’re a little shallow when it comes to things such as money and attention. An attention whore from birth, you start reverting into Baby Mode only after the spotlight stops shining on you and focuses on someone else. You rarely flat-out lose your temper. Instead you sulk until someone notices, pats you on the head, and feeds you a cookie.
You aren’t a tantrum-throwing rageball, but it’s your constant need for approval and affirmation that reveal you have some more growing up to do. Appearances are important to you—especially looking “cool”—but what you don’t realize is that truly cool people don’t try to be cool; they just are cool. So quit trying so hard and grow up. By the way, you complain too much. Not a good look. I say this, of course, out of love—I swear.
Well, Twins, when it comes to maturity, you’re all over the place just like you are with everything else. One day you have the patience of Mother Teresa; the next, you have the fiery rage of 10,000 demons. The most immature thing about you is your flakiness and unreliability. You’re flakier than a freshly baked croissant.
You’re pretty even-tempered until you feel you’ve been wronged. Once that happens, you’ll throw that bowl of oatmeal right off your high chair and onto the floor. Pssst—it’s not exactly mature to stalk your exes on social media, no matter how they treated you. By the way, spreading gossip and trying to blackmail others is best left to middle-schoolers. As the saying goes, act your age, not your shoe size.
Every day is a party for you—a pity party. You’re quite the pouty little guppy. You pout like you’re being paid for it. You don’t throw things or hit people; you just cry in the hopes that some white knight on a steed will gallop into your house and hand you a tissue.
You’re neither the type to throw rocks nor to sit in a corner and cry. Your problem—and it’s a chronic one—is procrastination. You avoid conflict and responsibility. You flee in panic from performing your daily tasks and chores as if it they were the Grim Reaper. This is not adult behavior. You flunked every class in the School of Adulting.
In most things—such as paying your bills, taking care of your health, and being nice to strangers—you’re as mature as any other adult. Envy is what makes you a little green toddler. But if someone makes more money than you…or starts dating the guy you’ve been lusting after…or gets the promotion at work that you’ve been seeking for a year now…it’s time to stock up on wet wipes, because ladies and gents, we’ve got a 20-something infant on our hands.
Look out, here comes the newborn baby! Soiling her diapers, screaming uncontrollably, throwing her milk bottle on the ground, tossing her toys out the window, and staring at herself in the mirror while she bawls. The only way for you to be less mature is if you were a fetus.