I’ll Meet You Where the Page Proclaims The End

In a few weeks I will be turning twenty. This shouldn’t be much of a big deal, but to me it is catastrophic. I have been told that twenty is nothing to freak out about; twenty-one is the one that really matters. Well, not to me it doesn’t. Who cares about alcohol? It’s expensive and unhealthy. Aside from wine on a special occasion I don’t see much of a point in it. My mother told me that I will look back and wish I could have the time before twenty back. I think she is right.
I have always been the type of person to think too far ahead. I am prepared for everything, even if I didn’t prepare for it. I am thinking about the way life will wind down before it has even picked up. So I turn twenty, okay. Then I become a twenty-something, then a thirty-something and who knows how many somethings God will allow me to have on Earth. But I digress.
The twenties are the most hectic times in a person’s life. They turn twenty-one, they graduate from college, are introduced to loan repayment plans, get big-kid jobs, find a worthy person to settle down with, then finally settle down. Oh, and car insurance goes down at twenty-five. I am honestly more excited about money I don’t have to spend on insurance instead of money I will spend on liquor.

The fact of the matter is that I don’t want to grow up. I’m a toys-r-us kid, dammit. I put on my big girl pants and grew up a long time ago, so why should I be forced to put another notch up on the year post? Isn’t it enough that I’ve been twenty-three for the last two years? (by that I mean I am young enough to still be immature when I want to be, but old enough to not be phased by offerings of that gasoline people call liquor). Can I not be frozen in time at this age?

Peace, Love, and Puddin’ Pops,
AMZ