I turned 27 years old this morning at 6:49 a.m., and it feels really damn good. So good, in fact, that I hardly scoffed at the torrential downpour that completely soaked my pants on my walk to my office. The cards and daisies that littered my desk made up for it.
A handmade lunar calendar hangs plainly in my kitchen. It’s composed of black ink pressed deep into thick cotton paper. Each month spirals into itself like a snail’s shell, displaying daily moon phases, and highlighting new and full moons, and zodiac transitions. I peep it every morning.
Each December, I compile a list of things to do and accomplish during the upcoming year. Some things are vague and perpetual, some things are oddly specific. Regardless of its contents, its purpose is to encourage new adventures, and spend some quality time galavanting beyond the confines of the comfort zone. Because that’s where growth happens.
One swipe of the thumb and Facebook wildly scrolls through what looks like a digital bridal publication. Alas, this is not a trendy wedding mag—it’s my news feed. Settling into my mid-twenties, I’m coming to terms with the inevitable life shift affecting my peers. We’ve arrived at the age of engagement—engagement in marriage, in home buying, in babies.
Wikipedia describes your stereotypical Type A personality as “ambitious, rigidly organized, highly status-conscious, sensitive, impatient, takes on more than they can handle, wants other people to get to the point, anxious, proactive, and concerned with time management.” With the glaring exception of ‘anxious,’ I am guilty of nearly all those traits.
The five-years question. It’s the staple for every job interview I’ve ever entertained. Where do you see yourself? While I understand the suit on the other side of the table is looking for some kind of reassurance that their candidate has goals, a plan, and their shit together, it stirs me. I’m terrible with this “Q,” mostly because what I desire in that chunk of time is merely abstract.