The following post contains twentysomething thoughts unique to my own experience, inspired by a real-life middle-of-the-night existential crisis.
Does anyone still feel like they’re perpetually sixteen? Or is it just me?
Should I know how to do [insert random thing you don’t know how to do] by now? (For me, personally? I don’t know how to change a tire. Or the oil. Or fix a toilet or a toaster. Or anything. Isn’t that what AAA is for? And management? Or am I pathetic?)
Do I look “old?” Or could I pass for a college junior/senior? I mean, I am in grad school… it’s still school, am I right?
I think I look old. I spot crow’s feet. I need moisturizer, stat!
I remember when I was in high school and my friends and I were just sittin’ around chattin’ during lunch about our futures, and I remember thinking, okay, by the time I’m 24/25 there will definitely be a guy I’ve either married or am about to marry, and I’ll have a real job, and maybe a little house and for sure a dog or two, and I’ll be thinking about kids by the time I’m thirty, for sure.
Isn’t that hilarious?
I mean, if you do have that–good for you. Truly. That’s awesome.
I just can’t imagine that right now. For me, at least–it’s scary. So permanent.
I do have a dog. Ellie. That’s something. My goodness, I love her. Do you want to see a picture? You do? Okay, then! Here you go:
Back to this permanence thing–I think that’s what scares me most. As I’ve grown older, I’ve discovered I like things to change, I like to move around and mix it up. My dreams change, my address changes, my taste in clothes changes, etc.
So when it’s time to “settle down,” will I be ready for it? Could I live in one place forever and ever? Could I do the same thing every day forever?
Is anyone ever really ready for it?
Shouldn’t I be content with permanence? Shouldn’t routine be a comfort? A joy? Only some are lucky enough to have it, I guess.
Okay, this next one is serious:
Do I need a signature shade of lipstick?
The thing is, even though I’m mostly just a chapstick kind of gal, there’s a part of me that loves the idea of a signature lip shade, perfume, scarf, etc. Having a signature anything–now that’s something, isn’t it? Isn’t that the epitome of being a grown-up, a woman in charge?
Maybe I’ll look into it. The signature lip, I mean.
What if I always feel unsure of everything? Why do I always say, “I’m sorry,” or “I don’t know,” after every dang sentence? I’ve noticed I try to qualify everything that comes out of my mouth. I know what I think; why do I feel like I have to apologize for thinking it?
You know what’s sad/funny? I’m obsessed with presentability. I want every aspect of my life to be presentable. Acceptable.
It’s funny because I claim not to be.
I want to be acceptable. Normal. Me. My apartment. My clothes. My car. My bag. The stickers on my laptop.
Am I too old to have stickers on my laptop?
Is anyone ever really “too old?” I mean, whenever I say, “I feel so old,” to my mom, she just rolls her eyes and says, “Kaila. You are not old.”
And I don’t think she is either.
Don’t we all want to get super, super old? Isn’t that the goal, ultimately? So why do we worry about the whole age thing? Shouldn’t people just be people no matter the number of years they’ve lived?
So there’s no “too old,” or even a “too young,” right? Or is there?
I don’t know.
There I am, saying (typing), “I don’t know,” again. Oops.
One thing’s for sure: I am in my twenties, and I have no idea what I’m doing most of the time.
Except for quesadillas. I know how to make quesadillas. And pasta. And scrambled eggs.
And that’s something.