I was laying in bed the other night with the boyfriend watching some piece of rubbish on the television when a harrowing realisation hit me. For the past four months, I've steadily grown to accept the fact that I'm 20 years old. It's just one number up from 19, and one number below when I'm allowed to go to Vegas and get drunk, gamble, and marry an Elvis lookalike. But that one fateful night delivered me a crushing blow. I'm not just 20. I'm in my twenties.
I think it hit me pretty hard because the "twenties" are when everything happens. It's when I'm supposed to get a career, get married, sacrifice my vagina and start a family. It's when I have to move out, buy my own food and pay for my own internet. It's when I have to become a proper grown up. I've known it since I was a kid. So now, it all becomes real. I have to become an adult.
That wouldn't feel so impossible if I wasn't chronically childish. Disney makes my world go round. I insist on play fighting with my boyfriend. I can't even get a job, never mind a career. The only "old person" thing I do is bake. I've spent so long avoiding becoming old that it appears to have crept up on me. I might take up knitting now, just to soften the blow.