Today is my 25th birthday. Something about that milestone, that quarter of a century, unsettles me. It seems unreal to me that my twenties are halfway over. Hell, it seems unreal to me that my teenage years are over. Or my middle school years for that matter. It amazes me that I'm not still chubby cheeked with a mouth full of braces, wearing roll-on glitter and platform sneakers every time I look in the mirror.
I'm 25 years old. I have a lot under my belt. I have a husband, a house, two kids, two pets, a car, a responsible budget, a degree, a budding career - a life. A life that is full and accomplished and by all means "grown up." But I don't feel like an adult and I never have.
I'm 25 years old. I thought I'd feel grown up by now.
How far into adulthood do you wade before it starts sinking in? That you're standing in the big shoes. That you embody "grown up" to your own tiny little people. That you're in that season of life you imagined when you were a child. When you used to say "when I grow up."
When does it become real?
That you're not just playing dress up with dolls or house in a cardboard box. That you're here in that unfathomable world of adulthood - breathing it in, living it out - shaping and molding it with each passing day. Making it your own.
How do you ever feel grown up?
I don't know. Ask me in another 25 years, when my babies are scrambling to feel like grown ups themselves. Maybe I'll have grown up by then.
But then again, maybe not.