It’s my 23rd birthday in two-and-a-half weeks, and oh, my God, I am ancient. I keep getting all these extremely troublesome feelings about my upcoming quarter-life crisis, whether my studio apartment is noticeably smaller than the studios of my acquaintances, and if my job is prestigious enough to humblebrag about at parties. These are problems, you guys, and they’re all rushing at my face like a generously full beer bong.
I just, no matter how much wrinkle cream I preemptively put around my eyes in hopes of staving off those unfortunate early-thirties crow’s feet, I’ll never feel like I’m truly staying young enough. I see 20-year-olds running around my neighborhood and, Christ, they have so much time ahead of them. I can only vaguely remember my 20th year, as most of it was lost in a haze of espresso vodka and complaining, but I know I wasted it. Time just flies, you guys, and on the pre-eve of a 23rd birthday, one is rarely more acutely aware of the fleeting time we have left. I feel like time is slipping through my fingers, like these tiny ass grains of sand, rising up around me like that scene in Aladdin where Jafar has Jasmine locked in that hourglass. That’s how I’m feeling, all the time.
And I get this overwhelming sense that if I don’t write it down, if I don’t keep it here for me to come back to at some point in my life where I’m like, “What did I have to say at 22?” these moments will be lost forever. I can’t do that to my future self. What else will I have to do at 45, besides wistfully look back at old blog posts? Ostensibly take care of children, and hopefully enjoy all of the luxurious rejuvenating facial treatments that will be available to millenials in a few years.
The other night I came home, got a movie off of Netflix, settled on my couch with a pint of ice cream, and fell asleep before I found out if Katherine Heigl actually had cancer or not. I woke up in the full evidence of my seniority: melted ice cream puddled at the bottom of the paper container, blue glowing screen of my unforgiving laptop staring back at me, a cellphone I didn’t even bother checking before I passed out. That was when I knew it; I’d crossed that invisible line. I was old. It was only a matter of time before I started receiving applications for AARP and cheese-of-the-month clubs. This must be how retirees and veterans feel.
I don’t know what I even have to look forward to, now that I’m officially in my late-early twenties. I would crawl into a snuggie and padlock the zipper forever if I didn’t have the vague hope for a few more decent brunches and possibly a Real Housewives set in London or something. I mean, now that I’m old, it’s really the little things that I have to look forward to. There’s no more exciting obstacles, events, or surprises. It’s just a slow descent into wearing Spanx and participating in Jeopardy from home.
And spare me your snide remarks if you think I’m being melodramatic, you’re only 21. What the hell could you possibly know about life?