With my 24th birthday less than a month way, I decided to compile a list of things my body and mind have done to politely remind me of this transition. (If you know me at all, you know that I hate getting older, so this is therapeutic.) Enjoy!
-No matter HOW I get out of bed, my knee, ankle, elbow, eyebrow, fingernail — they all have to crack.
-My priorities have changed. I now rank watching The Bachelorette over doing the dishes or applying for a better job. (Actually, doing the dishes has never been a priority.)
-I don’t feel as ashamed leaving my IN-N-OUT bag on the floor next to my bed. Even if I fall asleep before throwing it out…then forget it was there when I crunch on it the next morning.
-A friend decided the other day that if Peter Pan came to my window, I would refuse to go to Neverland because “it’s not as comfy as my bed.” I don’t think I can question the validity of that statement.
-I insist on going to bed before midnight, even if I have guests over. Even if it’s Friday. BUT I will let them stay and drink my warm beer! (Moral of the story: I can’t finish beer anymore.)
-I’m pretty sure I used the sentence, “It’s all about me” three times last week. I blame Jen Lancaster for resurfacing my “only child syndrome”.
-A wild night out for me is seeing a private screening of Magic Mike on a weekday. Then getting burgers at Bob’s Big Boy AFTER…wait for it…9pm! Don’t stop me now, ma!
-I choose work over going on dates, unless it’s 100% specified I will be getting a free meal, movie, or car. If they look like Brad Pitt, I’ll pay…the tip.
-I can’t remember the last time I wore my stilettos, my sandals with the pink flower on top, or my white heels with the matching poofy thing. Carrie Bradshaw would shun me, if she knew I ever existed. (There’s still hope, Big, I swear!)
-I still haven’t gotten the “I enjoy cooking” gene, despite my lovely friend, Norman, taking the time out of his BBC night to teach me. He is gay and fabulous, but apparently it’s not enough to convince me that cooking will get Brad Pitt knocking on my door. Maybe if someone bought groceries and stocked my cupboards every week, I would be Don Draper’s DREAM!
-I forgot how to spell cupboards. I shit you not.
-At least once a week, my contact will decide it doesn’t want me to see anymore after I poke it with my hair or credit card. Apparently I don’t get enough excitement working two jobs and participating in “whose text can I ignore tonight?” that I have to declare war on the most important part of my face.
-Last but not least, I’ve asked my parents to get my car’s exterior AND interior cleaned for my birthday. My mom hesitantly agreed, thinking I would then ask for a pony or a new leather jacket. But there was no pony. I sincerely only want a fucking car wash.
Happy 24th to Me.