“the trick is growing up, without growing old.” -casey stengel
happy belated and all the jazz, but more importantly, guys: i’m going to be living somewhere for 2 years. two years. that’s terrifying.like a snake dropping from a bamboo tree inches from your feet kind of terrifying…yes, that recently happened.
the last time I lived somewhere for two years was Gettysburg College, NOSTALGIA #bullets. But college was nearly a half decade, permanence is implied. i didn’t need a plan yet, or a career, or life goal. i remember feeling pride when i learned to do my own laundry, and made it to class punctually, or got up before 10am and managed to stop at the liquor store before closing. plus, i was young, i had time, semesters, opportunities, tomorrow.
but now, a week before the inception of my graduate school career, i’m officially among the “mid-twenties.”
like when the fuck did that happen? august 8th, to be exact…and now i’ve annoyingly answered my own rhetorical question. ew.
i still call my mom to ask cooking (slash general life) questions and have never attained my own car, i get excited when reruns of full house play at night and i still sleep with my childhood blanket, cleverly named “blankie,” (commenting on my coolness in this endeavor is unnecessary, it’s totally implied, amirite?) needless to say: i definitely don’t feel old.
but every new birthday cake candle introduces additional responsibility. 300-level collegiate classes soon transform into 700-level graduate school courses, rent (especially in new york city) will cost you roughly your social life & also $1650/month for a bed, bath and closet converted kitchen. Recovery from anything too strenuous–drinking, squatting/lunging, heartburn, bone-breaking will be oh-so-much harder.
26 candles. now there’s a hell of a movie title. sweet sixteen, only fast forwarded ten years, when let’s be honest, we’re still doing the exact same behaviors we were too young to be exhibiting as a teen, only now it’s more acceptable to wear higher heels, publicly consume more shots of tequila and advertise our adult-sized breasts (well, for most women, i still have bad boob growth karma, apparently, are you there god, it’s me, Lu). plus without the added stresses of retainers, pimples,
homework and curfews. (remember when you got paid just for household chores like making your bed? sigh. those were the days, #teamlostboys)
age is just a number though, right? so why is it that NUMBERS seem to dominate our lives entirely (and no i dont mean #hashtags)…damn all you “destination” focused people. it’s all about the journey, baby.
26–years of existence
14–number of places i’ve lived
2–the number of sisters i have…slash years i have to complete my masters degree.
8–my lucky number. my birthday is 8/8/88, it’s just too easy.
[insert # here]–sexual partners.
[insert # here]–countdown to specified holiday, vacation, the weekend.
129–my weight [for the day]
shocking that i’m willing to write my weight, yet not the # of people (and by people i mean men) i’ve slept with because it’s wayyyy less than 129 😉
4–the number of years i have until i seriously feel old. (30….NO)
but you get the point.
drama aside, i have an admission, truthfully, i don’t mind this new # at all. the opposite to aging is dying, right? though, FINE, maybe, perhaps (definitely) i’m still (slightly) jaded in 50 shades of denial. i’ll just be 25 plus 1 until i accept this new age (ERA!). besides, there’s always 27 to freak out about.