Here is a cheat sheet for today’s post: sometimes I contradict myself.
Generally, I am a level-headed, pragmatic person. I am the person you want standing near you in the instance you so happen to catch on fire because I’m not the type of girl who is going to be bent over screaming, “ZOMG THEY’RE ON FIRE!!!!” I am the type of girl to calmly find the nearest bucket of dirty rain water and put you out. I might even beat you the flames with my coat. (Unless it is white.)
Basically, I am awesome in times of general freak out, terror, shock, and awe (no George Bush). And I say all that to say, don’t fucking judge me for the following.
Last week, as seems to be the case with everyone who successfully survived New Year’s hangovers, everyone was all abuzz about the changes they were making in their lives because the calendar struck January 1st.
(Full disclosure: This year I also found myself being one of those people. I don’t hate on people who make New Year’s Resolutions though I generally don’t make them unless they are something like this foolishness. But I, like most people started a new exercise program after the New Year… not because I was waiting for some magic to happen on January 1st, but because I knew I was likely going to spend my 2 weeks home in Atlanta over the holidays cooking, eating, and very, very drunk. In case you were wondering, I was 3 for 3. *hands go up… and they stay there*)
As usually happens around this time of year, talks of my annual birthday trip started, as I am the 1st person to have a birthday every year. It started innocently enough…
“La, how old will you be this year?”
“Um… 26. Wait no. 27. (insert long pause) ZOMG I’M GONNA BE TWENTYFUCKINGSEVEN.”
Now, many of my beloved readers are mainstays in the 30 and over club and because of this fact, your first instinct will be to respond as many of my beloved friends and Twitter followers who are older than I did when I tweeted my unhappiness with this calendar change;
To that, allow me to offer a simple fuck you in advance.
Because I know numbers and shit, I know that numerically 27 is not all that older than 26. I KNOW this. And yet I couldn’t help but feel a mild sense of panic wrapped in a little bit of impending doom settling in below my boobs. I am not one who freaks out about getting older for the most part, but there I was, all wild eyed and antsy at the prospect of aging another year.
27 is not old. But for some reason, it feels far older than 26. Or maybe it is, rather, that while I hold vehemently to the notion that we shouldn’t compare our life’s progress to others, maybe I am doing this all wrong. I mean, what have I done REALLY? Have I accomplished anything of note? Am I pursuing any of the dreams I said I was going to? What am I doing? Omg do I have to get a cat or is the dog enough? I have tons of questions.
Let’s see… I am late shades of 26 with few advancement opportunities at the company I love, refusing to date, refusing to part with Chipotle, and mom to a temperamental dog who refuses to stop jumping up on strangers. I have an apartment that I love, though it is by no means as fabulous as it could be, and my mother refuses to stop plotting on my uterus. On the upside, I, uh… usually win drinking contests and I am amazing in bed.
This is silly. I know. You don’t have to tell me that. I am not old. If my parents and grandparents are any indication, I quite literally have damn near 50 years of life left. I am working, and striving and travelling, and playing and drinking and living and loving more than likely just as I should be at 26. Hell, I have even found a way to make a few investments, pay off some debt, and make a few grown up purchases. But now that I am here, this side of adulthood that I thought I wanted as a kid, and thought I was preparing for in college, I have to ask…
Is this all there is?