Life at (Almost) Twenty-Five

I’m getting old. Yeah, I said it. And I will again: I’m getting old. This Sunday I will turn twenty-five years old. I know 25 is nowhere near the hill that one is apparently “over” at, say, 40, but nonetheless I’m on my way. And on Sunday I will be exactly 365 days closer to its summit. I’ve always known that I’m a bit of an old soul, but in the last few weeks I’ve felt more middle-aged than ever. Let me elaborate.

I ordered a pair of flip flops at work and almost hurdled the UPS man to get to them when they came in. Now, this wouldn’t ordinarily seem significant, everyone likes getting packages. But these flip flops didn’t have cute rhinestones and they weren’t trendy and gladiator-esque. They are 100% orthopedic. And I couldn’t wait to get my feet in them to see what miracles they could perform on my aching back. Boy do those contoured soles feel so therapeutic on my little tootsies. You’re officially past your prime when you’re trading in the Rainbows for flops you ordered from a physical therapy catalogue. 

Did I mention my aching back? And neck? And, this is a new one, knees? Everything seems to hurt these days. I feel creakier than ever and spend the first ten minutes of my showers stretching and contorting my muscles into obscene positions to get them to loosen up. And then I re-enact those stretches throughout the day, at work when clients aren’t paying attention, in line at the grocery store, sitting in class, waiting at red lights, wherever and whenever I feel like it. I think a classic symptom of aging is doing something that will make you feel better regardless of how ridiculous you look doing it (e.g. the overly loud public nose blowers — is that really necessary? And did you seriously just put that handkerchief back in your shirt pocket?)

Despite these unavoidable hiccups that accompany getting older, there are some really great things about being at the quarter-of-a-century mark. I’m still in that group often referred to by older folks with an envious daydreamy look in their eyes: twenty-somethings. And that means, when it’s really worth it, I can pull off those heels with those jeans, even if it costs me two weeks back in the ortho-sandals to recover. I also still have five whole years before I’m out of that club, which means I still have plenty of time to figure out what I’d like to be when I grow up. I’ve also developed a mature relationship with red wine and dark beer — I don’t have to drink if I don’t want to. The peer pressure involved in, “We’re 21, I guess we should drink whenever we have the chance” has totally passed. (Thankfully. I’m the defintion of a lightweight.) Perhaps the most relieving part of being 25 years young is not having kids yet. My selfish, immature side truly thinks that no matter how old you are when you have kids, they take away whatever’s left of your own childhood. I’m overwhelmingly excited about the prospect, but right now, I’m simply not quite ready to give up Saved by the Bell reruns and shopping in the Juniors’ section.