We're Gonna Party Like It's My Birthday

Well. That was a fast year.


For meeeee?!

Twenty-five? How did this happen? Well, logistically speaking, I know what went down. I was born and I have managed to stave off death for twenty-five years. Well, almost. I guess I have until about noon tomorrow to make it before I gloat too loudly, but I'm optimistic.

Most people expect me to be running around screaming, wearing clothes that are too young for me and fearing that I will die alone, or fearing I will find myself barren by the time I try to make babies. They ask the question, "So, you're twenty-five?" with the same hush at the end as if they'd asked, "So, you have herpes?" But it's really okay. Am I having the quarter-life crisis? Not any more of an existential crisis than I have on my birthday and New Year's every year. I'm relatively happy with the way my life is-- I have a job, a family that loves me, good friends, a place of my own to live, I'm not dating an asshole, I still get carded at bars so I can't look too busted, and in the grand scheme of life I'm comfortable financially-- but of course I want more. I want to travel. I want to get out of debt. I want to write professionally. I want to have a good relationship. But I can't force these things to happen before their time. It'll work out. I even think I will make a baby someday before all my eggs dry up. I am an optimist.

So, if you see a woman stumbling down the street tomorrow in wedge sandals and a sassy dress, screaming her damn fool head off about the eternal footman holding her coat and snickering, it's probably me. But I assure you, I'll be having a blast doing it.