This morning I awoke and had a mild panic attack about being 25. Being 25 is a recent development, and I didn’t think it bothered me too much. Apparently I was wrong.
Now some people (old people) would think I am being excessive/stupid/a moron for letting my quarter century bother me, but straight out of the gate there we have a problem. “A quarter of a century,” was the most common, grinning response from people aware of my date with destiny. Did you have to use the word ‘century’? Because to me that’s a reminder of a really long length of time… like how long I’ve been alive, for example.
It’s not the 25 years that bothers me, it’s the lack of achievement that comes with it. I am 25 and I can tie my shoe laces, but I’ve yet to completely master shaving my legs without cutting myself occasionally. I am 25, and am currently experiencing my longest run of employment since graduating from high school (I’m not counting the 9 months backpacking, because we all know I was taking part in a wanker-esque ‘School of Life’ period). I am 25 and movie posters adorn my lounge room (they’re cool movie posters though, so, quite defensible really).
No one can say, “But your only 25” either, because Keira Knightley was also born in 1985 and she’s basically been rocking out in corsets on screen since she left the womb. Lily Allen was born in ’85 and she’s already talking about retiring. Don’t get me started on Zac Hanson – he’s already a blast from the past because he’s been releasing albums since 1997. Haylie Duff is a slight consolation. We can’t all be winners.
My body is breaking down due to old age. My eyes are shot, my posture’s so bad I have a premature hunch and my wardrobe is an alarmingly accurate reflection of my greying taste. The only reason my lack of fitness doesn’t have a spot in the previous sentence is because it’s a permanent feature.
I console myself by playing down the whole ‘birthday’ scenario. It’s a phase, it’s over before it began. I can shake off the panic with the relief that’s there’s 364 days until I will feel truly old again. Unless I accidentally comes across some youths wearing their version of ‘shorts’ (they’re not really shorts are they? More like denim underwear) while crumping to Ke$ha. Then I may have to cry.