25. A quarter of a century. 25 was the year I was supposed to be on my way to marriage, having kids, making a name for myself in terms of career.
You know that Blink 182 song? What’s my age again? There’s that iconic line – nobody likes you when you’re 23. I remember being a kid and thinking 23? Damn. That’s old. So old. At 23, I’m going to be an adult, ready to take the world on, head first. But 23 passed, 24 came and went, and before I knew it I was 25. A quarter of a century.
I told myself I wouldn’t freak out. It’s just another year. Another number. 25 means nothing. But, then I turned 25 and found myself a bit more lost. 25 seemed too old to be still living at home. Too old to stop having no cares in the world. 25 was only 5 years away from 30, the year I always wanted to have kids by.
I thought I’d have more figured out. I think we all did. We’re millennials – the generation of quick impulses. Living life in the moment, figuring we’ll deal with the consequences later. So we acted young. Reckless. We focused on finding our passions, even if that meant quitting one job for the next for the next. We spent our paychecks on immediate comforts, things we probably didn’t need and definitely couldn’t afford. We told ourselves it’s fine, we’re young.
But, here I am 25. Realizing it’s time I say goodbye to nights spent binge drinking. Paychecks spent on shots I can’t afford. Moments spent dating the fun guy, the one I don’t see a future with, but the one that keeps me on my toes. His wanderlust matches mine.
I keep telling myself. 25. It’s just a number. I can still hold onto my youth. But, I know I’m wrong. And on the quietest of nights, I hear the inner, logical me saying 25. Baby girl, you’re 25. You’re not a kid anymore. It’s time to find yourself.