Friday, November 19, 2004


So today you're officially old - in your eyes anyway, the only eyes that really matter. 29. Jesus, you can't even lie and say you're in your mid-twenties anymore. No, 29 is for sure late-twenties.

And when I say late-twenties I mean old.

You're uncomfortable with being this age. When did adulthood start, anyway? Did you miss it? Was it 18? 21? Now, at 29, you still don't consider yourself an adult. And it's not one of those lame things where you intentionally avoid labeling yourself an adult for the sake of hanging onto your long-spent youth. No, you honestly still think yourself to be a kid.

Your banker, the guy who tells you what to buy and when, he's an adult. He's got a few nice suits, he leaves his home in the suburbs each morning, and drives to work in his new Lexus. He's got a plan for your life because you clearly don't. He's 24.

A friend of yours is dating a new guy. He's really great, she says, he's a graphic designer, owns a condo downtown. He's divorced, he's got a kid - he's 29. Almost thirty, you say, unable to hide your disbelief, you're dating a guy who's almost thirty!? You mock, but you've forgotten that you, too, are almost 30. One year away.

But you can't possibly be an adult, right? Sure, you're married and that's all fine and good, but adults have adult trappings - things like careers, kids, and property. A spacious house with a nice lawn, cutlery that's all from the same set, drinking glasses that you didn't steal from a bar. Important things. Real things?

So, 29 - not even a milestone year. A nothing year. A year that only brings you closer to the Final Mystery.

But not at all closer to being an adult.

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