The clock has just struck midnight and hurled me into a place that I’m not sure I’m ready (or want) to go: my late twenties. Not that I want to discontinue living–I wouldn’t have any problem with staying 25 to 27 forever and ever, with amazing skin elasticity. See, just a few minutes ago, I was 27 and in a stage I called “late-ish” twenties (and no, I will NOT be changing my bio; get over it). “Late-ish” was the more truthful way to refer to 27 instead of “mid-twenties,” because that more describes 25 and 26. However, at this point, I’m afraid I’m just in my straight-up late twenties for the remainder, and that, my friends, is a hard realization to handle.
Turning 25 was hard enough, but not detrimental to my psyche. Every year that started with a “2” prior to that, you’re really just a glorified teenager without a curfew who can drink legally. People didn’t take you seriously. Hell, most people still don’t in my world, but that’s how I like to keep it–less pressure. However, 25 is when you really begin to be seen as an adult in the eyes of your elders. At 28, people expect maturity, but I’ve expressed before that maturity is boring AF. I don’t feel 28. I may struggle to pull off consecutive binge drinking days, but with sleep, hydration, and an advilall (special hangover cure and stamina booster) if we’re talking more than two days of raging, it can be done. Other than that, I feel as if I should be stumbling out of bed sometime just short of noon to skip off to class.
Self-evaluation and critique gets more intense with each passing day in your late twenties. Before, if you doubted yourself, it was much easier to say, “I’m just enjoying my mid-twenties, fuck it,” as you gave a giant “suck it” gesture to the world. Now, these questions are starting to hold some weight, and attempting to release the stress with our best friend, the adult beverage, sometimes just makes us think about it even more, whether it’s due to the hangover blues or the alcohol failing and making us contemplate the “Am I where I should be?” question even more. This makes people straight-up weirdos momentarily. It’s emotional. No one likes being that crazy person.
And the questions don’t stop. Is there something more out there? Why am I still poor? Is my body capable of lasting me another 60 years? Doesn’t feel like it. How often does your liver regenerate itself again? How are all these people getting married? Really, even them? They’re horrible. They reproduced? Gross. That all looks like it sucks. Hell, this kind of sucks though, too. Shit. How high is the lottery jackpot up to now? Need to hit that up. Who’s available to go to the bar with me? Anyone? I need a stiff drink or 10.
Ultimately, the worst part about your late twenties is the fact that it’s too damn close to that age I can’t even speak of, let alone associate myself as being anywhere near. People who are 30 are not me, dammit. They have their own families and mortgages, and they don’t get inappropriately drunk in public on a regular basis. Fear of the party stopping–and not having achieved the means to keep it going adult-style with fancy world travels and such–is just terrifying. The daily grind is the fucking worst, and twenties angst about it is just life. However, nearing that 30 mark feeling like, at least in your own mind, you would fit in better on your college campus than on double dates and in office meetings is just sad.
Regardless, I’m making a deal with myself. As long as I’m self-sufficient (at least for the most part, let’s be realistic) I’m making a conscious decision to give the “norm” a big Johnny Football finger as I go out with my friends tonight–the few available due to normal, adult responsibilities–and celebrate my seventh 21st birthday (probably more than that, because I had a few before I was legally 21, but that’s a story for different day). As for my behavior every other day of the week, eh, fuck it. I’m just enjoying my twenties out here, you judgmental onlookers. Early, mid, late-ish, late, so close to 30 you could cry, whatever, IT STILL STARTS WITH A 2! *Dramatic “suck it” gesture for good measure.*