If you would have asked me five years ago if 25 was old, I’d have said yes. Then if you’d continue to bug 20-year-old me and asked where I’d be, I’m betting where I’m at wouldn’t have even been an option.
At 20 I was a junior in college and set my sights on reporting the news at the New York Times. I was going to be a force to be reckoned with in the journalism community.
Not only that, but on my to-do list at 25 was to be engaged. I’m not even dating right now.
I was going to be away from my home town making a name for myself and planning my grown-up future.
Now, though, I’m living in an apartment where I can hear my chain-smoking neighbor coughing up from my bathroom. I rarely make my bed and I vacuumed for the first time since moving in this weekend.
I’m working at a local newspaper where on more than one occasion I have had to escape to the bathroom for a quick cry because of the place, the people, the pain I see.
I’m back in school. I did some quick math and, at the pace I’m going, figured I won’t be done with my graduate degree until I’m 28. That’s depressing.
I guess I thought life would just jump-start with age. But it’s still me with the same attitude, lack of future plans and same amount of responsibility.
The only change seems to be that every morning I’m checking the mirror waiting for the day when the first gray hair sneaks in.