The age where I'm past the oh-my-god-you're-so-grown-up-stage and currently settling on a quarter-life crisis. And although I should be pondering about what I should be doing in the future, I took a break to mourn the loss of my prodigy potential. I can never be a genius anymore. No matter what I do amazing from now on will be contributed to my being a supposed mature, well-rounded, well-read and well-travelled person rather than my innocent-wise-beyond my years nature.
I've made the transition from worrying about what picture I should color next to wondering whether I should get married or remain single forever, and scarier even, the thought that I might not even have a choice.
From Gray Crayola to Grey' hair
Before I know it, I will be turning 26. It's difficult when a certain action or state of being, is attatched to a number. I remember when I was little, and I couldn't wait to be grown up. I figured that once you were of age already, all the fun stuff you saw the older kids get would be handed to you in a nicely gift-wrapped box when you turn 18. Apparently, you only get a crossing-over party. A last joyride, complete with fancy dresses and awkward dances, before you plunge into unbridled responsibility.
I still can't come to terms with the fact that it's the twenty-fifth anniversary of my existence. I've figured by now, that I would have imploded already.
But life can't be that easy.
