Showing My Age

So this post will probably generate more than a few eye rolls, a few humoring smiles, and a complete lack of sympathy here and there. But I can't help it. I'm having a mini-early-adult-life-crisis here.

I'm turning twenty-five. *agonizing groan*

Perhaps this bears a little explanation. I have always been "the young one." In high school, I was a year behind everyone else in age. I graduated when I was seventeen. I finished college in three years. I got married and had Cambrie at what (compared to my high school friends) were insanely young ages.

Should have done some aged, worn affect on this photo since college-sophomore Stephanie is slowly withering away into responsibility and adulthood. *pathetic mourn*

People were usually surprised to find out how young I was because apparently I didn't act it. It was like my own little secret, that exciting little tidbit that was always fun to watch people discover.

It was almost as fun telling people my age as it was telling them that my younger sister and I were born on the exact same day, just two years apart. (See? I bet you thought that was cool, too!) Those little facts were just surprising enough to generate genuine interest, and just inconsequential enough to be promptly forgotten as we moved on to other topics. It was perfect!

Said sister and I. We obviously share a degree of awesomeness, in addition to a birthday.

When I was a teenager, twenty-four seemed like the perfect age. I was so anxious and excited to keep getting older (being the youngest did have its downsides), but I felt like if I could get to twenty-four I'd be happy just to stay there forever. Well, twenty-four has come and gone without me even stopping to enjoy it, and now that great, unlooked-for, unwelcome age has come. Next week, twenty-four-year-old Stephanie will be biting the dust. * dread *

This is a problem, see, because I know how to be young. I was a young graduate, a young college student, a young wife, a young mom. Whenever I've thought about who I am, I've automatically pictured a Stephanie who is twenty-four or younger.

If I think about who I'll be when I'm older, it's to picture Patrick and me in our fifties or so becoming empty-nesters and still young enough to do all sorts of fun things together. (Notice a theme, here?) I have never sat down to picture a Stephanie in those middle years, a Stephanie who is 28, or 33, or 41. Who is this woman??

....Pause. Deep breath. Recoup....

Okay. So now that I've acknowledged a serious breach in my psychological well-being, time to tell it to buck up and get over it. Here are the facts.

Next week, I will turn twenty-five. (Another deep breath.) Despite all my petty, irrational, and (let's face it) stupid feelings to the contrary, it will be okay. I'm just going to need to take some time to develop a sense of who no-longer-young-adult Stephanie is. I'll come to terms with this. And hopefully I'll find myself fitting in this new age bracket just as beautifully and perfectly and comfortably as so many of my friends and family already have.

Ay.

Baggy t-shirt? Check. Mommy ponytail? Check. Gorgeous month-old baby? Check.

Enjoying the last vestiges of twenty-four-year-old-hood, but (to be honest) thinking more about the increasingly awesome 3.5 month old in my arms. Guess that's how it should be. :-)

*Sigh* Thanks for letting me rant a little. In fact, having embarrassed myself by admitting this whole post to the cyber world, I've 100% motivated myself to make this next year one of my best.

So. Teeth gritted, goals lined up, birthday candles lit, ...twenty-five? Here I come.