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March 10, 2004

Just Like Bouillabaisse

I don't know what it is about the number twenty that scares me. There isn't anything particularly special about it... It's just the thought that I have now lived through approximately one-fourth (or a fifth, if I'm lucky) of my life.

One-fourth. One-fourth of my life has just come and gone. Poof. Vanished. Evaporated. Farwell. Ta-ta for now. Thanks for playing. Come again soon. It's been real.

I'm not griping becuase I suddenly feel old. God, I haven't even come to terms with the word old yet. No, I'm griping because I've come to the realization that there's a thousand and one things that I want to accomplish in my life, and I barely know where to start. I'm complaining because I've spent the past twenty years walking around with my eyes squinted open, hardly aware of what was going on around me. I'm bitching because I feel as though I'm drowning for attention in a sea of Who's Who and What's What. I'm groaning because I've finally approached the Adolescent Point of No Return. I'm crying because I've officially become an adult.

Oh sure, they tell you that you're legally considered an adult by the time you turn eighteen. And if you were lucky enough to be born Jewish, you matured far earlier than the rest of your friends; celebrating your thirteenth birthday with a traditional Bar/Bat Mitzvah. But who listens to all of that? Who really feels anything when they've been rewarded with the right to vote and a handful of presents from your Uncle Heschie and Aunt Ruth? I sure didn't.

If you want to say I'm having a quarter-life crisis, go ahead. It's cliché, but I know I've thought it before. Right now I'm taking a good look at everything and everyone around me, making sure that when the shit goes down, I'll have disctinct memories of my last days as a teenager. In the week or so before my birthday, I want to have one last hurrah; one more ride around the block of this neighborhood known as childhood. I want to sit in front of Saturday morning cartoons, eat Play-Doh, and jump on the bed until I get a split in my side. I want to curl up with a good edition of Nancy Drew or The Babysitter's Club. I want to feel as though I'm going to get sucked down the bathtub all over again. I want to eat fish sticks for breakfast, hot dogs for lunch, and marshmallows for dinner. I want to relive all the previous 7,300 days of my life and document them, word for word, and slap them on paper.

Maybe I'm exaggerating.

Correction: I know I'm exaggerating.

But the time sure went fast, didn't it?

I have this feeling that in another twenty years, I will be sitting in my futuristic house with my futuristic husband, griping non-stop about our spoiled, but intelligent, futuristic kids. I will have a steady futuristic publishing job, and will attend many futuristic business parties, where I will make the best manhattans and cosmopolitans in a twelve-mile radius. My futuristic husband (Mark/Mike/Matt) will be sleeping with his attractive, futuristic secretary (Katie/Kelly/Kim), and our marriage will not be any different from all of our other married friends. And though we manage to get along silently every night in our bed, I will one day sit and wonder, "Is this all I get?"

It'd better not be.

Today's Soundtrack: "Prototype Love," Outkast

Best Part of the Day: School is almost over!

posted at 6:25 p.m.

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