I’ve always thought of aging as a linear thing. I’d grow older and the body/mind/spirit would grow older as well. The body would grow out, and the emotions would grow up. Well, I think we can definitely rule out that last one. The body is definitely growing out, but mentally and emotionally, I think I’m trapped where I was at 25—only minus the whole hopeful, happy outlook with the kicky, cynical edge for flavor. Now it’s just the kicky, cynical edge.

My brain is having a hard time accepting my age. At this stage of the game, no one is ever going to refer to me as precocious again. The “firsts” seem few and far between for me. Well, I suppose I could be among the first of my friends to go through menopause, but I’m not sure I really want to win that race.

I’m still contemplating what I want to be when I grow up. And then it strikes me that I am a “grown up” and that ship is sailing. I have a job. I have a good job. I have a job I’ve been doing for years despite the fact that it was just supposed to be something to tide me over until my graduate school loans were paid off. It was a transitional job that would allow me to pay the bills and give me time to figure out what I wanted. That was nearly 15 years ago. Either I’m the slowest decision maker known to man, or at some point I started sleepwalking. I suppose it’s no wonder that I still think of myself as a carefree 25 year old—it’s probably the last time I really tried to make a plan for my life.

Of course, I may be a mental 25 year old because I actually felt like I had a handle on my life back then, and I’d like to get back there. I was out of school. I was making money. I was living with The Ex, and absolutely believing that my audition for the part of “wife” was going well. Perhaps I’m unwilling to really look at what went wrong, so I’m living in a state of suspended animation—embracing my apartment, lack of emotional ties or obligations and Ikea furniture.

The body… well, the body is what it is—confused. I’m getting acne now. Now?? You should not have to worry about breaking out and breaking a hip all in the same year (ok, so the hips aren’t that bad, but you know what I mean).

So, does this change? Will I suddenly see the world as an advanced thirty-something rather than an insecure and befuddled post-grad? Perhaps the only way I will actually feel like a thirty-something is by dating someone who actually is 25. Well, ok. If that’s what I have to do, I have to do it. Fine. The things I do in the name of advancing mental health. Sigh.

Kate, enjoying the X-Files resurgence that was part of my 25th year, as well. Can’t wait for ET tomorrow.

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