I’m not sure if I believe in the “quarter life crisis.” According to The Internet, turning twenty-five awakens a sense of panic – about purpose, career, love, money, health, whether or not you should get a pixie cut – that has apparently been dormant within you for the past twenty-four years. Metabolism slows, relationships are reevaluated, and the world feels bigger and scarier than it ever did before. Twenty-five is like Cinderella’s midnight toll: party’s over, kid. Go home to your pumpkin and house full of mice.
But, um, the only problem with that scenario is that I’ve been panicking about purpose, career, love, money, health, and whether or not I should get a pixie cut since I was, like, six. At this point, the anxiety is kind of like a spider in my bathroom (There really is a spider in my bathroom. It is red; I don’t like it.) that just kind of hangs out while I go about my everyday life – I’d rather see it out in the open than think about it creeping out of sight under my drain or in the folds of my bath robe, planning to surprise (kill) me.
The point of this analogy is that 1.) Can someone please go in my bathroom and murder that spider? and 2.) I’d rather face questions about my future than bury them in the “Things to Freak Out About” drawer in the already very unorganized filing cabinet of my brain.
In the past, birthdays were all about celebrating what was coming: at sixteen, I will get my driver’s license, at twenty-one I will drink margaritas on a Tuesday … Now, more than ever, this birthday feels like the perfect time to celebrate what has already happened. Twenty-four years of exams and papers and blog posts and airplane rides and kittens and books and books by the pool and books in bed and eggs benedict and that one time I was vegan and that other time when I learned to cook steak. And people, the best people. At home and at Home and at HOME.
In terms of what will happen? I’ll probably just keep hanging out with that spider in my bathroom and hope for the best.