25: Farewell to the "young" in "young adult"
Tomorrow I turn 25.
Somewhere between college, a dog, a marriage, the start of my career, a few thousand laughs, and some beautifully cultivated relationships, something terrible happened.
I'm almost never late, but in this instance I lost track of time. The only statement that comes to mind is, "what the fuck?".
Not very literature worthy, I'm aware.
I would say that this is a quarter life crisis, but the chances of me living to 100 are slim. depressing.
I'm half way to 50. sickening.
Young Adult: 18 – 24 years of age. Bye Felicia.
The inevitability of my birthday has left me a little consumed. It’s been two years since I graduated college and seven since I graduated high school. Actors and actresses and singers and boy bands and celebrities are younger than I am. When did that happen?
My life played out like some dusty photo album on the coffee table. Tomorrow will mark the start of another year of dreams, ambitions, regret, loss, and what I can hope will be an immense amount of happiness
I haven’t freaked out about my age before. This isn’t something I do every year. I typically fully embrace the presents, alcohol, cake and parties. But then again, in previous years, I wasn’t turning, what seems, an almost-ancient 25. I feel like this is it; this is the birthday that will kick start a potential life-long birthday hating saga.
It isn't a fear of adulthood. I've done adulthood since my late teens. It's the fading presence of youth. It's the realization that the hangovers will only continue to be more relentless. It's the knowledge that I have absolutely nothing in common with an 18 year old anymore. Does turning 25 mean that I have to stop throwing away the unopened correspondence for my 401k? Does turning 25 mean I have to stop quoting “Mean Girls” because I’m, like, nowhere near high school age anymore?
What type of sick prison sentence is this?
I'm old enough to have principles and young enough to constantly contradict them. I'm old enough to support a bar tab, young enough to rack them up unapologetically.
My snarky alter ego that I call Perfectionista looks down her nose at me over her Prada glasses and tells me to shut up and grow up. Because who gives a fuck what I have to say?
My soul stops me with a scowl. She says she gives at least three thousand fucks what I have to say and scolds me onward. She tells me to take my honesty and passion up a notch or two or ten thousand. She tells me to bare my child-like vulnerability for all to see and to never let it cease. She says to break down and cry like a thunderstorm that takes everything down with it. She tells me it's okay to mourn the loss of my early twenties. She also reminds me to smile so hard that my cheeks hurt and my heart explodes as I drink the poison of happiness from the hands of my own progressing life.