24 just has this serious/my-head-is straight-on-my-shoulders/I don’t emotionally eat overtone. Well I’m a new member of the 24 and over club, and I’m playful/my-head-was-tilted-toward-my-right-shoulder-squeezing-a-phone-while-I-typed-at-work-for-two-hours-today/I’m eating obscene amounts of granola (story of my life) as I birth this momentary memoir.
Does 24 suit someone who calls her mom on her lunch hour and says that she doesn’t know what to eat for lunch and what does she (mom) suggest?
Would someone who is “even” still argue with her older sister about who sits in the front seat when they’re spending the day with their mom? I swear she starts, though.
Back in the good old days when I was 23 (sigh for seven days ago), I felt like the healthy two year distance from 25 was a validation of my widespread confusion over grad school, meals, selecting produce at the grocery store, and deciding if playing on a kickball league was really something I wanted. Now that I’m itching closer to 25 with each passing day (making a squeamish face), maybe I’ve got to use speaker phone at the risk of upsetting my skull’s posture while multi-tasking at the office and perhaps I should alert the manager at Trader Joe’s that I am not to be allowed to purchase anything suitable for consumption on a hike (trail mix, granola, the like).
If anyone asks my age, I think I’m apt to say that I “just turned 24…like really recently.” For how long can that be an honest statement?
And when does the quarter-life crises set in? Is it right at 25, or can I look forward to anxiety and dissatisfaction during the months leading up to 25?
Even numbers are a bitch; they just are.
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