I’m a handful of months into the last year of my twenties, and I’ve decided that 29 is a very awkward age.
In an award ceremony for awkward ages, 29 would come in as runner-up. My teen years win that competition by default thanks to the magic of puberty. Although at 29 you have to deal with something I like to call second puberty, that’s a topic for another time…
I was having dinner the other night with my friends, Maddy and Mo, and came to the realization that 29 is very black and white.
There we were, three 29-year-old people around the same table. Seated together but separated by stages in life.
Basically, it felt like this:
Maddy is 29 years old and pursuing a career in herbal medicine. She said that she’s really excited to be in the last year of her twenties because soon she can start the next stage of her life as a wife and mother.
Mo is 29 but said he already feels much older. Mostly because he often loses track of his age. He just started a new adventure in Canada with the love of his life that he met four years ago while surfing in the moonlight.
I am 29 and am on my third glass of wine.
At 29 you’re either on to that next stage in life or hopelessly clinging to the last one. You’re married or bar hopping. Having babies or having beers.
But no one talks about that awkward in-between place. That spot where you’re trying to decide if you can go to the all-night glowlight rave party and still make it to your board meeting in the morning.
Or maybe I’m the only one that found grey among the black and white.
Finding the delicate balance between responsibility and youthful vitality must be what this growing up thing is that people keep warning me about.
Hm, maybe I’m closer to the next stage then I thought.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a rave party to attend.