Crossing my legs in class and staring at my feet, they felt longer.
An illusion. My hair is shorter, and my head is lighter. No longer a bimbo. Crossing my arms, I felt older.
Yesterday someone asked me how old I turned, and I wrote it out. Two six.
While I enjoy lavishing in my twenties, I actually felt the weight of the other end of being in your twenties. This is a range we're talking about. On Monday, when I was still 25, one client told me she should have life figured out now that she's 22. On Tuesday, my novel 20-year-old client told me, "Come on, I'm in my twenties now."
I don't think any of us know what the hell is going on even as we pretend to live it.
By no means do I feel depressed for being older. In fact, I'm so glad I'm not 25 anymore. Or 24, 23, 22, and especially not 21 or 20. For now, I feel the way about aging the same way I felt about popularity in high school: being surrounded by like-minded peers makes you ignorant to anything else worth envying, if envy exists at all.
But yesterday as I quite routinely went about my day-- an 8.5 hour, noon to 8pm job, where no one knew my birthday nor cared if it was (because my job is about other people and not about me)-- I had one of the most peaceful and amazing days I have ever had in a long time. Clients threw fits at me. I had a lot of paperwork to do. Nothing was different except my outlook. It made me wonder why we feel special on a day that is no different than any other. Especially after having lived so many days already.
For the first time, I actually felt different on my birthday. And now it elicits more questions and more reflection. But ultimately: can this feeling be replicated on another day?
