I’m going to be twenty-seven next year.

TWEN-TY SEV-EN.

Which might not seem notable to you if you’re between the ages of twenty-three and death, and probably isn’t something I should even be concerned with since I’m not yet TWENTY SIX, but I am concerned about it. Maybe it has something to do that fact that I can practically feel my eggs dying. I’m not sure I’m even sold on birthing my own children in this life time but I keep having dreams in which I have children only to wake up and realize I don’t, AND THEN I’M SAD. Explain that crap to me.

Two summers ago I was seventeen and eating Top Ramen sandwiches on the living room floor of my first apartment while watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on VHS, and now the world thinks I’m ready to be twenty seven?? (I defy adulthood by using multiple question marks to emphasize my incredulousness). In my head twenty-seven looked so much different than the trajectory I’m on right now.

I feel like I need to know what twenty-seven means. Like there should be a definition somewhere I can compare my life to and hopefully it does’t say something along the lines of Age Twenty Seven: has been married for a few years, should have at least one if not two children, owns house, mid size dog and car, has stable income, and showers regularly. If employed, wears ugly pant suits to an undesirable office job. Because if it does, I’m fucked.

Ugly pant suits are disgusting. And while we’re on that subject, when can we all just admit to wearing normal clothes? Like, no one really believes you wear button-ups and cuff links every day and if I’m a schmuck in jeans, I’m a schmuck in slacks so why the charade Business People of the World? If I can do my job while wearing jeans WHAT’S THE PROBLEM? Collared shirts doth not boost productivity.

Anyhow, twenty-seven.

I want to be content with just living a simple life. And if I could learn to let go and enjoy the present I would be there right now. But will I be happy with this life a year from now? Five years? Here I was on the cusp of adventure, ready to jet-set to wherever my free-roaming heart desires when I had this thought: when will I no longer be young? At what point will I look back and regret the things I did or didn’t do while I was young and WHAT WILL THOSE THINGS BE? I feel an encroaching desperation to prepare for the future but in that preparation will I be dwindling my youth? Will I be wasting the time I could have used for things that won’t be an option in the future? AND WHAT WON’T BE AN OPTION IN THE FUTURE??

Thirty years from now I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’ll look back and laugh at the silly things my twenty-five year old self worried about, but I do really wish I had a dog.