I turned 27 this week which is weird because I still feel like a confused teenager thrashing their way through a transformative adolescence.
Did you ever stop still as a kid and wonder, just because you weren’t thinking about it in that exact moment, if you could actually have forgotten your own name? Just for a second? A bit like that if a tree falls in a forest and nobody hears scenario…? Maybe not, but there’s a question of consciousness, awareness or perhaps even self-assurance that has played on my mind recently.
I turned twenty-seven this week. It is a very weird age. In fact, it barely feels like an age at all; it’s somewhere between 21 and 30, and just about still mid-twenties (they’re until 29, right?). It is a number between the heady excitement of “you’re an adult now” and the heavy terror of “you’re an adult now”.
Yes, I know that one should not, must not, compare themselves to others, but damn, it’s easier said than done. I won’t go through the enviable respective careers and milestones of adulthood achieved by my friends, but let’s just say there’s at least one who has got convention nailed (uni, boyfriend, good job, first house, wedding, move house, better job…). Meanwhile, yours truly over here is back home and living in the museum of their childhood; my roommates – mum and dad.
I might factually, technically and numerically (niche indie movie reference there) be an adult now, but in no way do I feel twenty-seven, especially when you look at the timetable of tradition. That timetable makes a lot of sense when you’re young because it’s probably what your parents achieved without a hitch, at least to your innocent eyes. That freedom and safety that I was lucky enough to experience as a kid was pure bliss, but it meant that adulthood has been a hell of an act two.
I feel a funny little jolt every time I am compelled to acknowledge my age, not because time has flown (quite the contrary, actually), but because I feel at most 21, still flailing around as I try to work out what I want to do when I grow up.
I’m not ready to be nearly 30. Or am I? What the hell does it matter?