I’ll be 25 in September, a fact which tends to spring itself on me at inopportune times.
Twenty-five has always seemed to me like the age at which proper adulthood starts. You graduate high school, then uni; you spend a couple of years mooching around in a minimum-paying job until you finally figure out the thing that lights your soul up. You’re mid-20s by now, so you either do your soul-lighting thing as a hobby or you figure out a way to making a living from it.
Twenty-five is the age at which you start thinking seriously about long-term relationships, about marriage, about children. Twenty-five is the age at which we start to say, I need to get my shit together.
I guess what’s so startling about my reaching Serious Adulthood is the amount of shit that I do, actually, have together. I work in a job I enjoy that’s more than tangentially related to the field I want to end up in; I’m married and have been for a couple of years; I’m renting long-term and seriously considering either buying a shoebox apartment or moving overseas for a year. I budget, I eat leftovers for lunch, and I wear makeup to work every day. For all intents and purposes, I am an adult.
But seriously. Really?
I’m beginning to think that this Serious Adulthood thing is a bit of a scam. I mean, sure, I pay my rent on time and wear pencil skirts, but I’m also a massive Marvel fangirl and have been known to squee unselfconsciously when the topic comes up. I remember to schedule a checkup with my GP every year – I have a GP, for crying out loud – but I’m pretty sure the last time I ate M&Ms for dinner was only a few weeks ago.
Come to think of it, maybe I don’t have that much to worry about after all. If I’m just making it up as I go along, I’m sure everyone else is too, and I sure as hell don’t notice a difference.