As of this post writing, I’m 27 years old.
However, after having two pandemic birthdays, I still consider myself to be 25.
But apparently, all of my legal documents will say that I’m 27—and that my real name is Rebecca.
I was challenged by Bill to answer the question: How old do I feel?
I think I’ve hit some of the milestones you’re supposed to in your 20s, but I also know we’re all on different paths and it’s not worth comparing yourself to others. I’ve graduated college (twice), bought a car, and moved out of my parents’ house, but I think those are accomplishments to celebrate at any age.
I’m old enough to have had a Razr cell phone—my first phone ever in middle school. So I was once well-versed in T9.
I’m young enough to not know how to use a fax machine but I’m old enough to remember burning CDs with songs I bought from iTunes.
I’ve experienced my fair share of “adult injuries” and I’ve had many, many chiropractor visits before. I sometimes get winded walking up a flight of stairs, but that could also be my asthma. I’m in fairly good shape health-wise, and although I may never run a marathon, I’m glad my body allows me to run 5Ks on a regular basis.
Now I usually can’t stay up past 10:00 p.m., unlike when I was in college and I’d go out on Thursday nights and roll into bed just before midnight while having a class at 9:00 a.m. Friday morning.
Apparently, I’m old enough to be trusted with a mortgage and someone let me purchase a condo last year. I think that’s the most terrifying thing of all.
Physically and mentally, I do feel my age. I feel like I’m in my mid-20s and like I honestly have no clue what I’m doing. I feel like I’m just winging it every day, hoping to not give myself food poisoning or forget to mail in my HOA check every month.