Wrong Side of 25

I am officially on the wrong side of 25.

Since turning 26, I am convinced my best days are behind me.

I am definitely not aging well. My teeth haven’t been pearly white since the tooth fairy visited me. My inner thigh gap is getting further and further from ever existing. My hair is getting darker, which is causing a dramatic spike in the cost of hair care and when I run out of contacts... I am so blind that I think I should qualify for a seeing eye dog.

The older I get, the harder and harder it is becoming to pass as 19 years old, which means my life goal of going to a high school prom is borderline illegal at this point. Plus, I can permanently say goodbye to my squandered career as a child model with a bowl cut that never took off.

The concept of “health insurance” is really what petrifies me about being 26. I could never work on Capitol Hill because that the idea of being responsible for someone else’s health care or having to read the “health care bill” is worse than running out of hairspray. (Running out of hairspray is my 2nd greatest fear). Ever since J and A removed me from their health insurance, I have had to wear a bike helmet when crossing major city streets because I wouldn’t know how to use my insurance card if I was ever hit by a bus. The only thing I know about my current health insurance card is that is is not a cash equivalent and doesn’t work as a payment method at the grocery store. (Which was news to me). Don’t even get me started on car insurance. I hope J and A don’t cut that umbilical cord until I am at least 27.

Whenever I visit my mature friends who have mature things like spice cabinets, coat racks, empty laundry bins, guest rooms, and hand towels in their powder rooms, I ask them if they are interested in adopting a financially dependent 26 year. I haven’t had any takers yet, but that might be different if I was 25 instead of 26.

But some things have improved with age. My selective memory is getting better and I am becoming a slightly more competent complainer. It is becoming more acceptable for me to wear one piece bathing suits and shop in J.Crew CrewCuts because people assume the size XL dresses are for my daughter instead of myself. Plus, I am constantly wished a “Happy Mother’s Day”. But that might have more to do with my haircut than my birth year.

At least I am still young enough to have my diagnosis of Early Onset Osteoarthritis still considered to be ‘early onset’.

xo

B