Thinking about what it means to be 27, today. Anyone older than 27 scoffs, saying 27 is still total youth (and more or less, I am feeling they are right), and those younger than 27 act as though the number is ancient. Anyone the same age just nods, sympathetically, sagely, as though to say, “Now you too know how it is.”
Frankly, 25 was more terrifying. And 26. 27 is in the middle of something, yes, nearer to 30, but…. I’m starting to ask, is 30 so bad? I don’t really think so. The idea doesn’t bother me so much as offer hope— what can I be at 30? An image of myself, a goal I can set. What I want to have accomplished. I still have years to do it, and I’m happy to not be a teenager, happy to not feel like a mostly unknowing kid anymore. Sure, I want to be “youthful” and “fun” but I’m starting to be okay with the idea of a little maturity, as well.
(Also, been perusing old adds to much enjoyment and occasional horror. The “feminine hygiene” ads in particular kind of scare me.)
