Yesterday I worked from 9 to 5. I wore a practical dress-and-scarf combination. I packed a balanced lunch the night before.
After work I returned home only to binge-eat Funfetti cake batter with a spoon.
My point here: I feel too young for many things, too old for many others. And yet, I’m enjoying this bizarre, pesky stage of my forever in-between existence.
Yeah, I hummed “Shake It Off” while filling out my retirement plan. Yeah, I texted my 16-year-old sister to clarify the meaning of “IDEK” the other day (“I don’t even know,” by the way) but managed to logically incorporate the word “rubbish” in a text to a fellow 20-something.
Sometimes I hate that I can claim neither the wild-and-free world of teenage Taylor nor the “grown-up” world. I dream of a neat little label, maybe some witty one-liner to throw in my Twitter bio, something that establishes me as a grown-up lady in the city.
I bought a big-girl workbag (you know, the kind that holds everything yet keeps you from finding anything at the desired time). I gave walking in three-inch heels another valiant effort.
Then I remember there is no emblem of adulthood, no memento or moment that will somehow signify I’ve entered it, leaving behind the juvenile era of cake-batter binging, tripping (again) in too-tall shoes and unabashedly proclaiming my love of Taylor Swift’s “1989” (complete with mild flailing and a brief shriek permissible only at a One Direction concert).
Everyday juxtapositions and evidence of my in-between-ness aren’t a sign of social delay or an inability to catch up with classmates or friends and their ‘milestones.’
Interesting, fun people, I like to think, are part Funfetti cake batter, part “I Knew You Were Trouble” (the goat version, of course) and part sensible retirement plan — all at once.