My Quarter Centennial
As the time on my cable box flips to midnight, it finally becomes a reality: My Quarter Centennial has arrived. Never in my life could I fathom turning 25. I remember wanting to turn 16 so I could drive a car. After turning 16 and obtaining a license, I realized I had now become my parents’ errand boy. I remember wanting to turn 18 so I could be free from my parents’ reign and march forward with my newfound, government-approved, independence. After turning 18 and legally gaining my “independence,” I instantly discovered that no child will ever be free from their parents’ reign. I remember wanting to turn 21 so I could legally drink and never have to worry about underage harassment again. I don’t however actually remember turning 21. I’ve been told I had a great time.
I’ve always thought that people who said, “Age is just a number” were pathetically old. Well, turns out I was right. When I was 20, my buddy, Griff Dawg, turned 25. Besides my parents, he was now the oldest person who’s number was in my phone. He told me that he didn’t feel any older than 18, and only now can I agree with him. Some things haven’t changed:
- I still dress the same: Sandals, baggy jeans, and no shirt.
- I still have my parents reminding me to be at the airport 8 hours early.
- I still complain about things that don’t really matter.
- I still pretend to have a clue.
- I still have a bottle of Andre permanently glued to my hand.
But many things have changed:
- No longer does my long hair and stubble make me look rugged and adventurous. Now it makes me look unbathed and unemployed.
- No longer do people tell me that school is my job. Now they tell me to get a real job.
- No longer do girls make out with me on pool tables because their “birthday t-shirt says they have to.” Now I get, “excuse me sir, can you take a picture of me while I make out with this kid on a pool table?”
- No longer do I have a “birthday week.” Now I have exactly 24 hours before someone comes along and kicks me off my high horse.
- No longer do I get invite to 21st birthday parties. Now I get invited to engagement parties and weddings. Although, these aren’t a total bust because the booze is usually free.
- No longer do I get a Facebook message from a pretty girl that says, “Had a great time last night, can’t wait to see you again!” Now it says, “Who are you and why did you ‘friend’ me at 3am? Fuck off, creep.”
- No longer do I stay up until the early morning because I’m out drinking with friends. Now I stay up because the 8 cups of coffee I had at work are still coursing through my veins.
- No longer do I see girls wearing birthday tiaras and glitter-covered shirts. Now I see them wearing sweaty bangs and beer guts.
- No longer am I exhausted from partying for 72 solid hours. Now I’m exhausted from the idea of partying for 72 solid hours.
- No longer do I drink shot after shot of Jager until I’m so drunk I don’t know my own name. Now I drink bottle after bottle of wine because it’s classier.
I guess it’s not all bad? I mean, now I can rent a car and legally be an 18-year-old’s chaperone on a cruise. Now if only I had a reason to rent a car or a job as a high school gym teacher, I’d be in business! When it comes to hitting the Quarter Centennial, I will say that it is much worse for a girl. Odds are that she’s already peaked at 18, expired at 21, and is now beginning to curdle at 25. If I was still in school, I’d be old as fuck. But since I’m not, I only feel old as fuck. People in the real world (old people) are actually jealous of my youth. That’s the crazy thing about 25: you’re too old for school, and too young for work.
There are many things in life that we can control; unfortunately time is not one of them. I think if we can ever come to terms with that fact, then we’d all be much better off. I guess I should be thankful, because according to my cousin, I have already “beaten my life expectancy by 7 years and am living on borrowed time.” It really is true that “Age is just a number.” Unfortunately, that number is now 25, and that’s halfway to 50.
I’m going to wrap this up because if I do anymore typing at my age, I see the phrase “carpal tunnel” in my not too distant future. Also, it’s clearly way past my bedtime. So after I polish off my glass of warm milk, empty my bed pan, and position myself gently on my bed as to not throw out my back, there is one thing that will keep me smiling as I drift off to sleep: Griff Dawg will be turning 30.
