I just turned twenty. If you spell it out, verses using the numerical form, the age seems a lot less daunting, and now that I look at the word itself, it has a rather beautiful quality, does it not? (Cue the song, “Fuck Up Some Commas” by DJ Fetty Bronson because I’m sure that previous sentence was a grammatical atrocity).
Anyway, here I am, twenty. What am I supposed to do with my life? What am I supposed to have already done with my life? How does one “adult”? Is it still acceptable for my mom to schedule my dentist and doctor appointments? Is it frowned upon to continue sleeping with my baby blanket? Should I possess a superior knowledge of politics? Do I need to be seriously dating someone at this point? Am I going to be alone forever? What’s the best dish detergent, both quality-wise and price-wise? Can I continue to live with the hairy legs of a ten-year-old girl or is that not sexy? Should I be sexy now that life’s thrown me into this age realm? I can’t pull off a smoky eye, but I’ve got a solid wink. Does that help or is that out of style?
Should I have baby names already picked out and noted in a binder filled with wedding plans? What’s my ring size anyways? Am I supposed to schedule mammograms now? Can my mom still do that for me? Does Sean Paul rap in English? Must I pay for my own gas now? Where do babies come from? What is the meaning of life? At what age do I boast about grocery store bargains and gossip with a lady friend in a coffee shop? Am I supposed to drink coffee, even if it tastes like liquid tar plaguing my taste buds? For the sake of my sanity, can I phone a friend?
Yes, I get it, you all knowing, maternally annoying, you. I can hear you beckoning in my ear canal, “Oh but age is just a number.”
But this ain’t no ordinary number. Look, if numbers flocked together like some typecast high school clique, twenty would reign in a constant spotlight, her blonde hair rippling in slow motion, her perky boobies held out like a lunch tray, her smile as bright as her future. Numbers like seventeen and thirty-two would be the chicks with makeup-caked pimple volcanoes and poorly applied eyeliner living in the constant shadow of Miss Gawked-Over Twenty.
I’m really not as “SOS, I’m in a red alert, pre-quarter life crisis” as what I may be writing at this point, but there is a slight uneasiness in my stomach. Perhaps this uneasiness that’s looming is anxiety? Anticipation? Excitement? A struggling gas bubble? An undigested apple slice? The world may just have to live with that question forever unanswered.
And you know what? A lot of questions don’t have definite answers. A lot of questions can’t be answered in the exact moment in which they are asked, but rather later down the road. How wonderfully convenient is that!? It looks as though I’ll figure everything out as I go, quite possibly with the help of my parents of course. They can still help me, right?
Twenty looks as though it is unavoidably coming at me full force, much how puberty blessed me with big boobs my junior year of high school. I suppose I’m ready. I suppose I should celebrate the fact that I’ve existed for an entire two decades and those decades have, in fact, been pretty good. I suppose I should wear twenty much how a suburban mother drives around with a “Proud Parent of an Honor Student” bumper sticker slapped on the back of a Dodge caravan. I suppose I’ll be okay.
So here’s to twenty, you sneaky bastard, you.
Let’s make life happen.