Right now, it is 11:59, and the last moment of being twenty is fleeting. By the time I post this, I will be--oh, and there it is--twenty-one.
Well, I surely don't feel any different. I don't think. It is so strange to me that I have lived twenty-one years. As you can always expect from me, I see it two ways. On the one hand, I can't believe I've been around for that many years. And on the other proverbial hand, I feel like that is such a short time. I don't know. Why bother with trying to figure it out. For the shock factor, I always like to compare my age to someone else's life at this particular age. When I was ninteen, I wondered at the fact that my sister was that age when she married. How young it seemed. Ah, but now, my mom married when she was twenty-one, and that has never seemed young to me. Until now. I wonder when we stop seeing ourselves as so young.
Tomorrow's going to be a busy day. Filled with responsibilities, appropriately enough. I have to scramble my Shakespeare things together, take those two earth science tests, fill out my time card, do some business at Sparks, and I must wash dishes before I leave for the weekend. How adult. Bleh. I find it interesting that we've given times in our lives certain labels that entail certain characteristics. A person can't just be a person. We are either young or old, a child or an adult, a kid or a grown-up. I've never thought about it, but rites of passage give you new job descriptions as you go along. Maybe it's just me or maybe it's just tonight, but that seems quite absurd.