It was my 28th Birthday on Thursday. This week I bought a pair of arch support inserts from City Sports, so if it’s downhill from here at least I’ll be walking in comfort. While contemplating my foggy future, it dawned on me recently that I’m actually an adult. While I still think that I’m a seventeen year-old kid sneaking beers, and staying up late to watch MTV’s Undressed, the reality is that I have a job, pay rent, and have to make important decisions, like: should I iron this shirt or should I just let the humidity take care of it while waiting for the trolley? Answer: Iron the shirt!
My personal hygiene has improved (always apply Vitamin E oil at night for a glowing look in the morning!) as has my fashion sense (match a brown belt with brown shoes). I also know that living in the city of Philadelphia has hardened me. My mother always comments at the homeless people when she drives into the city from Delaware. “Why is that guy standing on the street corner,” she says, “He’s young! Why can’t he get a job at McDonald’s or something?” Meanwhile my Dad is fascinated by the fashionistas on Broad Street, “Did you see that girl? Those are some heels! Jeez that was a short skirt!” I never notice these things, or if I do they just sort of wash over me and then there’s something else to see, or person to tweet, or place to check-in on Foursquare.
I guess being in your twenties means balancing the naiveté of youth with the rationality of the real world. Being an adult also means coming to terms with your limitations: I know that there are friends of mine on Facebook who’s success I wish I had, and I know that I’m the same age as Mark Zuckerberg and I’ll most likely never see his $10 billion net worth in my lifetime. Moral of the story: comparing yourself to your friends on Facebook, and the Founder of Facebook, are both a waste of time.
Ultimately, birthdays are about celebration. I’m still alive and there’s life to be lived.
Here’s my favorite part of birthdays, eating cake: