25 is weird. Really, bizarre. Not quite sure if I’m supposed
to be settled, not quite sure if I’m supposed to be living some vagabond,
adventurous lifestyle of exploration. Every buzzfeed article I read tells me I
should veer toward the latter. “17 reasons to quit your job and travel” “25
ways to know you’re not ready to settle down!” Click bait. Click bait. Click
bait.
25 is an exciting time. As I go to sleep right now, I await
the arrival of a special little girl who is in the process of being born. My
best friend is anxiously anticipating the birth of her first niece, and I am
thrilled. We’ve already scoured the racks of Target together, in search of the
cutest little gal clothes. We laughed aloud as we sorted through peplum dresses
and peacoats…for 3-6 month olds. I mean come on, why does a 3 month old need an
outfit suited for a middle aged wedding attendee? But oh man, was it cute! At
25, you are old enough to be an aunt, and that is indeed special.
25 is a disheartening time. A lot of emotions re-surfaced
this week surrounding a breakup. Seeing my first love, a year after we’d broken
up. Wanting to be his friend….hearing from him that “friends” is not in the
cards from us. Seeing pictures of him with a new someone. Disconnecting via
social media. 25 is the time you make relational decisions that have long term
strings attached. You break up with the person who may not be the right fit for
that potential, elusive, “forever.” And you doubt that decision at every twist
and turn that life throws.
25 is a narrowing time. At 25 I’ve defined my closest
friends. I know who they are, and I know what it means to have quality
relationships. I know that unfortunately some friendships fade and that’s ok.
It’s acceptable and isn’t a negative reflection on anyone. At 25, I’m happy
living with my best friend. I know that it means constant laughter and minimal
stress. I say things like, “How sad when we have to get married and move out
and can’t live with each other anymore,” because that’s how great it is to live
with your best friend, at 25, in a tiny shoebox of an apartment by the beach.
Because when your best friend is your roommate, she knows when you put on
workout clothes with no intention of breaking a sweat. She knows that for you,
Fridays nights are for lounging with Netflix and Saturdays nights are for
dancing on tables. She knows that you lie about your height on your Hinge
profile and that swiping was only meant to be done side-by-side, laughing all
the while.
At 25, I treat my dog like he is my kid. At 25 I’m still
allowed to have days where I wish I was on track to having an actual kid but
know that I’m nowhere close. At 25 I have a professional career, but am still
looking for more meaning in the workplace. At 25 I breakdown crying on a
monthly basis for the hardships that overwhelm the families in my vicinity. I
listen as each friend tells me of their loved ones who have been checked into
rehab, sentenced to jail, are battling issues of mental health, have taken
their own lives. 25 has meant a lot of pain and sorrow, for hurting adults. And
at 25, you’re not shielded from this knowledge and you are not immune to the effects.
At 25, I’m documenting 25. All of the weird, fun, and unique
aspects of being 25. And that’s all there is to it.
