20 something is the new Decrepit.
I was filling out some paperwork the other day at work, and it asked me how old I was. I was running on autopilot, and immediately went to check the box that I’m most used to checking, when I realized.
Option 1: 18 and under
Option 2: 19 to 25
Option 3: 26 to 35
Option 4: You are old, Father William.
I am not the first option. I am not even the second option. I am the third option, and I am old. Buzzfeed keeps suggesting all these things on my timeline about “things you shouldn’t ask twenty somethings” and “how you know you’re in your twenties” and other such wonderful things expressing that I’ve aged.
It’s not that I really think that I’m old. It’s more that now that I’m old and falling apart with creaky knees and wrinkles, I’ve realized: my youth is over.
I saw my friend BlueSteel last weekend. He’s the same guy I’ve always known, beardy to perfection, with one exception.
“Blue Steel,” I ask him. “What is this?”
“Don’t remind me.” He shakes his head at me. “I don’t know how it happened.”
“Are we this old?!” I’m in shock.
“I dunno.” He shrugs. “I guess so?”
BlueSteel’s beard had gone from Henrik Zetterberg to George Clooney overnight.
“If it helps,” I tell him. “Whenever I shed. I have to stop and check. Especially if it’s a blond one. And I make sure it’s not grey.”
Poof turned the grand old 25 a few weekends ago. Quarter life crisis, yo. We had planned a nice, classy dinner with friends, followed by a drink or two. The day of the party, however, Poof’s husband Captain texted me with an idea.
All of a sudden, I wasn’t the DD anymore. We had the capabilities of “going out-out.”
Going out: putting on clothes that are not yoga pants, and going somewhere that is not your house. Out to dinner, out to breakfast, out to ice cream. Kids are possibly and most likely involved.
Going out-out: wearing heels. Wearing make up. Doing something to your hair, and staying out past your bedtime. Probably dancing. Probably loud music. Probably shots. Definitely a hang over.
And “out-out” we went. Next thing you know, it’s the next morning. I’m in my bed, in borrowed yoga pants and a t-shirt. GoldDust played responsible party and did not take a shot of Rumpleminze, and was much more bright eyed and bushy tailed. Then there was me.
Me: Yeah. Let me sit up. [Sits up]. Give me like five minutes now.
GoldDust: No breakfast? What if we just go to the mall?
Me: That sounds good. Let me just brush my teeth. [Heads to bathroom. Lays on floor. GoldDust finds me there.] Give me like five minutes now.
GoldDust: Do you think you can handle today?
Me: [Sits up on bathroom floor]. Give me like five…[GoldDust gives me look] I can’t do it. I can’t do today.
And I didn’t do the whole day.
Or the next day.
Two day hangover.
But, the big clue in that I’m out of my adolescence, and into the rest of my life I’m old and will continue to complain about it stage?
I was at work the other day, chilling, and one of my more amusing young patients came in. 16 years old, no filter, spiky hair. Probably a real catch on the high school scene.
Pt: I’m so old. Me: You’re 16. You can’t complain yet. Pt: You’re only like 20. Me: I’m 26. I was born in 1987. Pt: …that’s…vintage.
— Laura Anne (@LA_theGirl) September 25, 2013
That’s right. Vintage.
Posted on September 27, 2013, in Carpe Diem and YOLO and stuff like that, Fix My Lighthouse, Words and Phrases and tagged Adulthood, Age, BlueSteel, Childhood, Going Out, Going Out Out, Henrik Zetterberg, Life Stages, Transition, Twenty Something, Twitter. Bookmark the permalink. 8 Comments.