When you’re a teenager, and even well into your twenties, people always tell you how much you’re going to change when you get older. How you’ll think differently and mature, and even outgrow some of your relationships. But you never really believe them. You might nod, and smile, and tell them you’re sure they’re right, but in the back of your naïve little brain you’re thinking yeah right. Maybe they changed, but you’re different. Right.
Except, well, you’re not.
At the end of the day all those annoying people, packed with age and wisdom, were right and you did change. It wasn’t even like you had a choice. You just woke up one day and BAM!, you were different. Your opinions were different, your tastes were different and suddenly, you started craving the musical tunes that fueled your youth. It was hellooo 90s and goodbyeee techno.
At least that’s what happened to me.
I turned 25, and had a minor emotional meltdown, and suddenly the career that I had spent the better part of a decade chasing seemed so…so pointless. I had gone from writing about news to fashion to events, and then to actually putting those big events together for a newspaper. Don’t get me wrong, I chose to become a journalist because I had something to say. I had a different opinion that most people I knew, mainly the much older people, but still – I had an opinion. Except, I never considered that I’d have to write about what other people (editors) wanted to publish and mostly have to keep my opinions to myself.
Then, somewhere between 26 and 27, I got old. When I say old, I mean like the doorman tells Debbie in Knocked Up, “I can’t let you in cause you’re old as fuck. For this club, you know, not for the earth.” The man has a point. Granted, I’m not Debbie’s age, but I’ve been partying since I was 14 years old, and in a few weeks that’s going to mean that I’ve been partying for 14 YEARS. I’m kind of over it, you know, I want to do something else.
Anything else, and who knows, I might just love it.