As tiiiiime gooes b–what the hell?!?
I’ll be damned if I know where the year went. All I do know is we’re well nigh at December, and things seem all too unerringly familiar. I’d wanted this to be a year of changes, and believe I made a fraction’s fourth worth of progress during the year. Mostly by chance and circumstance, though, so I think 2006 will merit more effort on my part, more putting the foot forward. It’s one thing to have New Year’s resolutions; it’s another to have high-wheeling ideals you hope to inhabit posthaste, even if they’re not entirely realistic.
There’s an added tap on the shoulder in all this that is my impending thirty-ness. Yes, I’ve still one more birthday to go before the big three oh, but achievements reached in your twenties seem to loom larger on the scale of impressiveness by mere fact of youth. You know, “He won this, makes this much, [insert dramatic pause] and is STILL only 26.” Stupid, I know, but you know what I mean.
Not to mention that “I thought you were older” has gone from glowing compliment to severed smack-in-the-face insult. And “He looks young” (yes, I still get those, too…well, once recently when I tried to get into a club without my ID) stokes the ego far more than it should. I used to preach the benefits of growing older as long as you still looked good. I’d forgotten how trying to look good is a disturbing obsession of mine.
It’s funny how when you’re little, you just can’t wait to grow up.
Then you hit 13, that first landmark that makes you a bona fide teenager. The sealed off world of PG-13 movies suddenly opens up to you, and you begin to feel a hint of self-pride as you start your way towards becoming an adult.
Then it’s 16: driver’s license time. Certainly a big one. A half-way point of sorts.
Eighteen is less of a thrill since it’s just kind of a teasing point until you turn 21. Yeah, you can vote and you’re officially allowed to have sex since you’re a “real adult” now, but you still can’t drink or go clubbing.
But 21…yeah, 21 rules. Everytime I look at an ad for a club and see that 21+ sign in the small print, I am reminded of that dreadful time when it served as the lock-and-chain centerpiece to the jackpot vault of fun that was clubland. I’m still thankful it’s not a problem anymore. And actually less impressed by the world on the other side. (Conversely, club ads that say 18+ have taken on a whole new meaning: once celebrated beacons of respite to my under-21 self, now warning signs of overarching puerile playgrounds to my over-21 self.)
I guess 25 would have mattered more if I had a car and could benefit from the lowered insurance. But it, and latter half of your twenties, actually just kind of serve as a final wrap up of what could still viably be called your youth. Not a bad thing, just something. And less to it than we make of it, I think.
