Something feels different about telling people that I’m 22 then how I felt when I told them I was 21. Twenty-two toes the line between “young adult” and “full-fledged, bill-paying adult.” It has weight to it. Suddenly, all those things I put off for “when I graduate” or “when I move” or “when I get my first job” are all on my immediate to-do list. Twenty-two is here, right now.
I’m ready for 22 because I’m not ready for it. I’m not ready to leave my college duplex and my sweet roommates or to move far away from my parents and our cats or to not have free access to my campus’s amenities and the city bus system. And I’m definitely not ready to no longer have the student-discounted fees for Spotify and Amazon Prime. But I may never be ready for these things, so now is as perfect a time as ever to begin.
Here’s what I’m doing to better transition to the Real World:
Exercising more.
The metabolism that I have taken for granted all my life is going. I know this because the other day, after I devoured my favorite thing to eat (a Happy Meal), I felt all bloated. And then I rubbed my inflated belly and irritated those around me by saying “look at my baby!”
Gone are the days when I could eat Flintstone vitamins and get my exercise at recess and be perfectly healthy. I’m making time to go to the gym, even if only for an hour a day, given the demands of my weekly schedule. Plus, I can’t afford cable right now, and going to the gym means I get to watch HGTV while I’m on the elliptical! Yay!
Purging my closet.
One day, a professional woman that I work with will probably ask me “oh em gee, I love your blouse! Where’d you get it?” And I will be damned if I say “Forever 21.” So, I’m selling or donating all my old polyester tops and dresses and making room in my closet for shirts that can actually be laundered without falling apart. If it’s cute, from a quality store and says “Tumble Dry Low” on the tag, I’m buying it. I write this now while wearing some new jeans from Old Navy that will probably last until after I’m dead.
Eating better.
The moment I took two Tums after a happy hour with my girlfriends (think: margs, guac, and bean and cheese nachos), I knew I needed a change. Some nachos once a month shouldn’t give me heartburn, but they do because I eat, like, powdered donuts for breakfast and microwaveable meals for dinner. You guys, something’s gotta change, because Tums are disgusting. I’m vowing to start each morning with a healthy breakfast, to lower my number of fast food runs, and to cook more. Even if I’m limited right now to easy things like spaghetti and grilled cheese, practice makes perfect, and my confidence in my abilities to make complex dishes will increase. But hey, I make a damn-near perfect grilled cheese.
Doing nice things for the sake of doing nice things.
A verse that I try to live by is Matthew 6:1 – “Be careful not to practice your righteousness in front of others to be seen by them.” What’s the point of doing nice things if you tell people that you did them? That little tooting of your own horn changes who you did that act for. So, I’ve started doing things like sending thank you cards and washing the dishes and emailing class notes to someone who missed them without being prompted or asked to and without telling anybody. Having these little acts of kindness kept secret between me and God is really helping me put others first.
Making time for myself.
I seem to never have time to read the books I keep in my room, in anticipation of “someday,” or to binge-watch the shows I want to or to do dorky things that make me happy, like buying a new hand soap at Bath and Body Works. But maybe if I actually woke up early and got all my work done at a reasonable hour, and if I actually exercised and ate better so that I had more energy, I would be able to do these little things that make me so happy. So, I will exercise more so I can watch more Netflix. That makes sense.
Saying “no.”
FOMO (“fear of missing out”) is stupid. Sometimes I go out partying because I feel like it’s what I should be doing, but then I just end up miserable and tired and too drunk to drive myself home. It’s okay to say NO. I know what happens at happy hour and at the bars downtown; I’ve been there, done that, and it can be so fun but also so horrible. I will no longer suppress my inner homebody for FOMO and only say yes when I truly want to. That makes it more fun for everybody.
Saying “yes.”
I’m saying yes to flying in airplanes, which the mere thought of normally makes me nervously fart. I’m saying yes to seeing horror movies and trying new foods and riding theme park rides. I’m saying yes to graduating college and moving away from the city I’ve called home for 22 years. I’m saying yes to the things that normally scare me and finding that they’re not that scary at all.
