perhaps dentures and Botox are right around the corner?
I've always admired bloggers that are ridiculously open and honest about real things, i.e. topics of actual substance (as opposed to posts about The Best Retail Experience Ever, although let's face it, that was pretty f'ing great). unfortunately, this is not one of those blogs where you will get thoughtful, well-written, insanely personal commentary about topics like religion, or raising children, or world poverty, or the Inconvenient Truth of global warming... more like "hey! here's a purty picture of Austin! and guess what! I got drunk the other wknd! woot!" or "hey! I am working 24/7! isn't that exciting to read about? oh, and I traveled to yet another random place!"
it's a good thing there are only about nine of you reading (ten on a good day, maybe 15 when I blog drunk).
I will say, however, that the topic that is taking up a lot of mental space lately is my age. it's funny, because I spent some time talking to my family about it this past wknd, and none of us "feel our age." I still think I'm 22, my dad is in disbelief that he's turning 60, I think it's funny that my brother is almost 30, my mom forgets that she's in her 50s, etc. then again, there are times when I look at other 22-year-olds and think "are you kidding me?! grow the F up!" -- and it makes me wonder about the expectations we have of age. why don't I believe that I am 26? I'm pretty happy with my life (I generally feel insanely lucky and grateful, actually), so why do I recoil at the idea of being 26? it's a perfectly good age, just as good as 24 or as good I'm hoping 27 will be, so why is the idea of being 26 so hard to stomach? I don't know if it's so much the aging process as it is the pre-conceived ideas we have of what we should "be" at each age.
the topic really struck home when I was attending wedding #2 of the wknd (Nay's fabulous wedding extravaganza, complete with ice sculptures, 10-piece bands, personalized light displays, and made-to-order omelette stations at the morning-after brunch). I sat at a table with some of dearest buddies from college, my beloved sillyhoos, and as I looked around our table I had a sudden realization: I was the Token Single Chick. it wasn't even that every single person at my table had brought a date and I was flying solo, it was the fact that every single woman was wearing either a diamond ring or a diamond ring and wedding band on her left finger.
it was then that it hit me: we're getting old! I'm 26! my peers have somehow reached the point of maturity where they are ready to make Real Adult Decisions, like Getting Married or Buying a Home. next thing you know, they'll be popping out BABIES and swapping toddler-training tips while I sit at my ad job and daydream about what I want to be when I grow up! crap. apparently I didn't get the memo.
it's very bizarre, this concept of age. on one hand, women of my generation are taught that we can be anything we want to be. you want to be an astronaut? knock yourself out? you want to be a supermodel? it's your choice. want to be a chemist? here's your lab coat. but when the options are seemingly limitless, they can also be a bit daunting at best... and somewhat paralyzing at their worst.
there's no neat and pretty ending to this post, since it was mainly a motley collection of my thoughts as opposed to some neatly organized argument with thesis statement + detailed support points. in lieu of a proper ending, then, I present you with a pretty picture of me with the aforementioned Married/Engaged Mafia, and, just for kicks, the Insanely Bad-Ass Ice Sculpture: