I turn 25 next month. Woah. Big deal? Right.
Obviously I am joking. The only thing cool about turning 25 is that my pre-frontal cortex is supposedly fully developed, meaning that I am officially an "adult." Gross.
A while back I wrote a piece about being proud of the fact that I am well into my twenties, now, and still in college. It is not that I have had a change of heart; I do not fault myself for dropping out the first time. However, I must admit that being among 18, 19, 20 and 21-year-old fellow academics who complain about "getting older" makes me feel a bit dizzy.
Ever since I was a little girl, turning 21 seemed like it would be the ultimate climax of my life. Growing up in Texas I saw my fair share of beer commercials, and the shows on MTV made the bars look like so much fun. In fact, I had the audacity to convince myself that I would graduate from college early. Then, after my fun, I believed that I would be pregnant with my first child around the age of 22. Instead, the day I turned 22 I had to leave work because I was sick from my first major hangover. It was like my liver told my body: "Kelsey isn't 21 anymore. Show her what physical pain is like." Now, only four years post-21 I nearly vomit every time someone mentions a shot.
My admission of not being finding liquor palatable any longer is not an admission of how uncool I am. (In fact, I know I am cool because I will still pop the collars on my button up shirts.) I am trying to explain that when I was "in my youth" I thought that drinking was the only responsibility that a 21-year-old would have is holding their liquor. At 21, I was transitioning out of a terrible engagement and coping with the fact that I had let myself down by dropping out of college.
Once all of the negativity transpired, and believe me, negativity will sometimes hit me straight in the face leaving me with two black eyes and a hardened heart. What differs from me when I was 21, 22 and 23 is that now I know not to expect anything.
Never expect the best, but don't expect the worst, either. Don't expect to get married, but don't expect to end up alone. Believe that your expectations will be met, but don't be disappointed if, and when, they aren't.
I don't know what will happen between the next 30 or so days before I turn 25. Maybe an agent will discover me and insist that I am the next Tom Wolfe or Sylvia Plath (depending on the mood I am in when they meet me). Perhaps Elton John will finally view the audition tape I sent in of me singing George Michael's harmony to "Don't Let the Sun Go Down On Me" and request me to duet with him. Or maybe life will stay the same as it is now; moving ever so slowly, but too quickly at the same time.
I'm not ready to be an adult. I'm not ready to make a monthly budget and actually stick to it. I'm not ready to just settle down and admit that even though I am still very young that I cannot get away with acting like it all of the time. And that's all OK, as long as I don't give up; as long as I keep going and giving everything I do 100 percent. I'll get there -- we'll get there.
