On Saturday, my whole world came crumbling down. I was doing my hair, my long, luscious hair, when something caught my eye. Right there in the middle of my part, a shiny, white hair. A GRAY FREAKING HAIR. I made Kassity pull it out of my head and after she did that I curled up in a ball and cried and thought about how I’m going to die alone in my apartment and my 50 cats will eat my face.
Which then reminded me, my birthday is next week. Have you decided what you’re getting me yet? Some ideas:
- Ninja Stars
- Yellow Flowers
- Via Starbucks Instant Coffee
- Nurf Guns
- A new, less evil cat
I actually do love birthdays, obviously. A day dedicated to celebrating me being alive? Of course I love it! However, this year I’m a little irked at the thought of turning another year older. And it’s not just because of the gray hair. I’m pretty much the baby in most social groups I fraternize in, so every year I’m always younger than THEM, so how old I turn is never an issue. And it helps that I’ve never been older than 23 up until this point… But 24, now that’s different. 24 means I’m in my mid 20’s which is followed by my late 20’s, which is followed by 30.
When I was younger, I always pictured myself riding around in my hovercraft going to my meetings at the White House as the presidential Press Secretary and four best-selling novels under my belt. Living in my Jetson-esque house full of my robot servants and the revolving lovers, life looked good for 30 year old Gracie.
What is it that makes growing older so frightening? I don’t think it’s that I’m not living up to 12 year old Gracie’s expectations; I mean, come on, robot servants? It’s not as much letting down past me, but I’m more afraid of letting down future me. Knowing myself, which hopefully I do by now (and I’m a pretty crazy biatch), I think future me is totally down with current me’s amount of fun and lack of preparing for the future. Well I hope. See I don’t know. That’s what’s scary. Maybe I should be hovercrafting around in DC and making book signing appearances in six years. And I still might be. Six years right now is a QUARTER of my life. In six more years it will still be 20%. That’s a huge chunk of time to get shit done.
So if turning 24 means I’m putting on the adult pants (Wait what? I have to start wearing pants? No one told me that), I say fine. I accept that challenge. But I’m taking it slow. This year I will now refer to my “tummy” as my “stomach.” That’s the only adult thing I’m signing up for in year 24. The pants stay off.