It's Been One Week

My first post for the first week of the best year of my life.

I turned 27 on June 15, a day I'd spent dreading since I turned 26.

I have really no profound reason as to why. When I was a kid, I remember thinking I'd be the queen of the world when I turned 11. Then it was 15. If only I could be 15, life would be perfect. Of course, then, there was 21. That was probably the last birthday I anticipated though, and I knew as I slurped down shot after shot it was all downhill from there.

Birthday's came and went, meaning very little in the grand scheme of my life. 24, wooohoooo! 25, I can rent a car free and clear! But in the back of my mind, I was just grateful it wasn't 27 yet.

Like 11, 15, and 21, 27 had become a landmark age to me. By 27, you should be married, making $75,000 a year and living in a house with a yard. At 27, I should know how to roast a chicken, own at least one pair of obscenely expensive heels, and belong to a book club. In short, 27 began your adult life. A real adult life--not the one I'd been pretending to live for the past 6 years full of day-drinking at Hamburger Mary's, watching reruns on MTV, and forgetting to pay my credit card bill.

So when June 15 rolled around last week, I sat holed up in my apartment, thinking if I never went outside, I'd avoid some sort of age-plague. I bought a bottle of my favorite prosecco and let it sit on the counter, unopened, afraid to mark the day.

But goddammit if I didn't wake up the next day still unavoidably 27.

And that's when I said "Fuck it. 27, I am going to own you!"

This is going to be my best year ever, but I suspect my efforts to live out the world's greatest 27th year will be hilarious, depressing, and mildly entertaining. Hence, the blog. So, here it goes.

***It should be noted I'm fully aware that 27 is likely not as significant as my brain has told me it is. So don't send me hate mail yelling at me for this. Mostly because I don't care.***