So today I was trying to enjoy my last day as a twenty-four-year-old, ignoring the onset of my official quarter-life crisis, which I have actually been experiencing since the day I left college. I was doing okay until I pulled up to the garage parking attendant to pay my parking fee, and she pointed out that I had a ticket stuck to my windshield. Huh? Wasn’t I just parked in an underground garage for the past five hours? How did I managed to “f” this one up? I read the ticket and I felt like I often do, utterly confused. “No Year or Month Tab on Rear.” Um, what? What about my rear? I was about to start crying when I thought “Save it for tomorrow.” You see, I have a little birthday tradition. I cry, every year, without fail. I try not to, but I can’t help but always be disappointed. Which is odd because I always have extremely low expectations. Yet something always seems to set me off, be it that I don’t get enough screen time on my own birthday party video or the television I was expecting turned out to be a new pair of socks instead. Or crying because I threw up all over my new stuffed animal (college). This year though, I think it’s the age that is going to get to me. Twenty-five? How did this happen! I swear I was rocking out to LFO and wearing stirrup leggings just yesterday. As a child I pictured myself at twenty-five with a mini-Dyana of my own, a Ken-like looking husband (I didn’t yet realize Ken was a goy), a house, a dog and maybe even a pony if things were real good, as well as an innate knowledge of baking pies for my little family. Imagine my surprise when I found out at twenty-five I still don’t know how to make my own sandwich (it looks like someone punched a piece of bread and then dropped a tub of mustard all over the place). I even admit I have a bit of Beiber-fever. And I happen to get a major kick out of the bumper sticker I saw the other day which read, “How’s my driving? Call 1800-PeePeeDooDoo.” Haha, PeePee, DooDoo. Not the twenty-five year old I thought I’d be. It’s okay though, because I can pull off a child any day. As I boarded my most recent flight back to LA, the bag attendant guessed that I was the ripe old age of twelve and at security, in a voice that is reserved for infants and young children only, the guard bent down with his hands on his knees and asked, “And where are you headed today!” So I will embrace twenty-five because really, I can be whatever age I chose. Maybe I will just act my shoe size. And maybe I’ll pick up some Dunkin Donuts munchkins to share with all my friends tomorrow. Because the cool thing about being twenty-five is I can do or act anyway I wanna.

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