till my intended retirement. Or, less morbidly, 1 month till I turn 25. And then the title of this blog will be so much more appropriate. I will have another 13 months to think about what I should change the tagline to once I’m no longer 25.
I was so excited the last 11 months to be THAT much closer to 25… and now that it’s rapidly approaching, I am horrifingly anxious of it coming to pass. It feels like another wave of my personal QLC hell is coming back to haunt me… or something. What have I accomplished in the last 4 yrs 11 months? I transferred schools. I graduated in nearly record time (given the circumstances). I was successful in building my career. I’ve gained plenty of professional experience. I maintain a publicly-viewed blog that has been up for more than a year. I’ve gained some very close and special friends. I have the bestest boyfriend. I have a retirement investment. My retirement investment application wizard asked me how long I intend to use those retirement funds after retirement. It was like it was asking me, ‘when do you think you’ll croak?’
This past weekend made me feel old too. My cousin’s daughter’s 2nd birthday was held in Central Park on Saturday. She turned 2, and I’m turning 25. When I had my 2nd birthday, I fell into my cake. I still harbor some strong feelings about not being able to eat the frosting/cake off of my arm. Apparently, I was too precious of a child to do anything as low as licking cake off your hand. The day after was a massive bbq at my house. Aforementioned cousin’s daughter was also in attendance. As she was toddling around my backyard, I realized how massive the yard must have been to her. I remember how it seemed like an eternity and a week to walk across the lawn in any direction. Yet, there I was — smacking around a birdie with the boyfriend — covering previously massive distances with only a few strides.
We played for nearly 4 hrs. I have been aching, throbbing — for the last three days. I feel old. My back is stiff. My neck is stiff. My joints are sore. I crack even worse when I move. I tire easily. Incidentally, my mom was able to keep up with us — even keeping up a spirited verbal exchange with the boyfriend — for at least an hour. I remember HER as the one playing badminton for hours on end during the summer of my smaller youth.
It’s so true… years go on forever when you’re young. But those things are over seemingly in the blink of an eye the older you get. Before I know it, it will be August 11th… and I’ll be 25.