I recently turned 27. And when I say recently, I mean barely over a month ago so it doesn’t even technically count. However, being the pessimist I am, I began preparing myself for being one year older six months in advance.
Six months after my 26th birthday, I began telling myself, “Holy shit you’re basically 27.” I told myself this so many times, that I often forgot I was actually 26, so once I remembered, it was like taking a time machine six months into the past! (The key to happiness is always denial)
By the time I actually turned 27, the sting was a little easier to bear. I had accepted the fact that I was no longer in my mid-twenties, and I was six months away from being 28 (again, denial = happiness). I enjoyed living my pitiful life through these rose-colored glasses. Until a young whippersnapper ripped those glasses off my face and crushed my soul with four seemingly innocent words upon hearing my age, “You age so well!”
I froze, unsure of whether I was supposed to say “Thank you” or “What the fuck is your problem!?” Thankfully, I was on a diet and not drinking (yet). I graciously accepted his compliment and died a little on the inside.
My mind began racing. When the fuck did I start aging, and doing it well for that matter?! I get it, I know, we all have birthdays once a year, we all get older. But at what point do you go from getting responses like “oh you’re just a baby” to “you age really well!” WHY THE FUCK WAS THIS TRANSITION NOT COVERED IN SEVENTH GRADE HEALTH CLASS!?
I did what any well-adjusted adult would do to remedy the situation, I began pounding Michelob Ultras with friends from high school in a game called Ride the Bus, jumping on the table after the fourth round and yelling “CHALUPAS ALL AROUND!” It was beautiful, for an evening I felt 18 again. Until I woke up in a hungover haze the next morning after being hauled home by my sober boyfriend the night before.
5am. What happened? Where am I? Am I still 18? No, you’re 3 years out from 30 you dumb piece of shit. Now get up and act your age.
I was determined to erase the night before by committing a few adult-like deeds. Since I didn’t drive myself home, I needed to get my car. I strapped on my Nike’s and workout gear and headed out the door into the darkness with a fork in hand, because I had too big of a headache to look for my mace.
I ran the two miles to my car, only stopping to dry-heave into the bushes three times (take THAT college Cass!) By the time I got to my car, the sun was rising. I posted a pic of the beautiful smog-filled sunrise in front of my friend’s frat-like-but-less-rapey home to instagram, so the world could see that I was a goddamned responsible adult.
I drove home with the windows down and the wind blowing through my alcohol infused sweaty hair. I jumped in the shower, put on my Sunday best, and headed to church, something I couldn’t remember the last time I did. The pain ringing in my head from my poor Saturday night decisions made it impossible to focus. I left before communion, the thought of drinking wine and crackers triggering images from the night before of shoving my face with beer and far too much Taco Bell than one person should ever consume.
The attempt to be an adult was there, but I was kidding nobody except maybe a few Instagram followers. I finally accepted my hungover Sunday fate, changed into my glow-in-the-dark onesie from Target, crawled into bed with a bucket of Red Vines and watched BoJack Horseman on Netflix the rest of the day. Monday would be the perfect day to start acting like an adult!
There are a couple morals to this story. The aforementioned true happiness cannot be obtained without extreme amounts of denial (ok, perhaps that may not work all the time). The second moral to this story is just avoid complimenting women at all costs. Chances are some of us ladies will figure out a way to over-analyze your compliment based on our own insecurities, turning you into a giant asshole. Juuuuuust kidddddding 🙂