It is (thanks, Sam, and thanks Europe) the final countdown. My last week of being a twentysomething. As of next Friday, I will be officially a part of a group whose name is shared with a mildy popular series from the late 1980s. Oy.
But really, what are the options? I've never been too fixated on my looks, so I guess I'll have it easier with aging than some of my contemporaries. Ooh, I love how I just used the future tense, as if getting older is something that happens later. When I was 20, 30 just sounded so old ... and I thought that I would maybe know how to be an adult by then. And now, here I am, no longer even a young adult, with the music of my youth being occasionally labeled as classic (No shit: MTV showed some Nirvana videos with that word in the upper right hand corner. Whatever.). Those days of my indulging in the questionable combination of space cakes and Boone's Farm straight from the bottle are certainly over (I am a Kansas girl, and that was as crazy as it got for me. Afterwards we climbed into the drainage hole thing on the side of the street and thought that was beyond hilarious, but that's another story for another time).
Anyway. I digress. Who wants to be 20 again anyway? Right? Right?
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