I’m twenty-seven now. Over the hill. I turned twenty-six and realized that the day I turn thirty, the world better watch out, because it’s imminent: I will have an epic breakdown.
By this point in my life I thought I would have had more figured out. I would have found the right guy, had the right house, I would know how to cook. I’d have the right job, the right friends; the right life.
I’m twenty-seven now; single, living in an apartment with a roommate, I burn toast, I have a job that is growing on me, my friends are hit or miss, and my life is nothing that I thought it would be.
I’m older. I’ve made so many mistakes at this point, that I’ve made the decision to pretend most of them didn’t happen.
I’m not wiser. Maybe that’s what comes at thirty: the wisdom.
I’m twenty-seven now. People younger than me make that face when they hear my age. Like I’m old. They didn’t make that face when I was twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four. Twenty-five got iffy, twenty-six, the panic set in. Twenty-seven. It’s official.
Well, thank you.
I’m twenty-seven now. I’m as lost and confused as I have ever been. I’m still figuring everything out. Who I am. What I want. I’m still as confused as I was a decade ago.
I’m twenty-seven now, but I might as well be eighteen, nineteen, twenty, because I have no idea what I’m doing or where my life is going. And everyday this fact terrifies me because I’m twenty-seven now. Almost thirty. How am I still this confused?