Beginnings and endings make me uncomfortable, but I also think it's embarrassing when people make excuses for their shit writing before they've even given you anything to read, so read on and I won't complain.
Six days ago, a thing happened to me that I couldn't stop. I turned 27. When I was a teenager, I decided that 27 was the cut-off age for acting like a drunken slob, and for wearing clothing fit for a little girl (knee socks, flower-adorned underthings, old cheerleading t-shirts, cut-offs, ravaged sneakers, carnation pink anything, etc.). I don't know why I always pictured myself in a pin-striped powersuit akin to Lisa Kudrow's I-invented-Post-Its get-up, but I did. Instead, here is what being 27 looks (and feels) like.
Whoops. I also didn't realize when I was younger that working in media affords me less stringent, shall we say, wardrobe requirements. And I certainly didn't count on still enjoying Cam'ron's "Hey Ma", but you'll have that. Or wanting to eat Swedish Fish for lunch. Oh God, I am exactly the same as I was when I was 12, except now I've got all those fun accoutrements that come with adult life: money, bills, a lease, a beer obsession, and a grown-up boyfriend whose affinity for sugar is as bafflingly intense as mine. Hey, this isn't so bad, is it?
The most surprising (and slightly unsettling) thing I've learned about growing up so far is that it's all about improvisation. And that isn't just me; it's everyone. Even Barry Obama is flying by the seat of his pants, and likely fighting the urge to just play basketball and eat Pez all day. State of the Union what now?! Aw, maaaannn. Michelle, get me my thesaurus.
So now you know my age and the basic realm in which I earn my keep. Entry #1 accomplished. I'm going home now to Swiffer my apartment and watch a back episode of True Life on MTV.com. I feel good about it, and you should too.
