Another One Bites The Dust

We’ve been trying to avoid thinking about this for a long time, but eventually the inevitable comes for everyone.

Just as ships must all eventually depart from the shore, and Paula Abdul must finally detach from all reality, so too, must we all leave our early twenties.

Yes, it’s true. We turn 25 on Sunday. Don’t cry for us, we’re already dead.

Gone are the days of fearless weeknight binge drinking. Long past are the mornings where it was okay to wake up and not know where we were, or who with. No longer are we able to use the excuse “but we’re just kids!” Time to cut up our parents’ emergency credit card, which they thought we chopped three years ago. Never again will we be able to use our age as a come on. From here on out, dating a college boy will no longer seem natural: it will be a triumph.

So long, Steak Frites - hello Seared Ahi Tuna with Mesclun Greens.

Farewell Pabst Blue Ribbon – Amstel Light, enter if you must.

Now is the time of Abyssine Eye Cream, Viking Ranges, and the consideration of small pets. These are the days of wedding toasts, condo shopping, and the catching up with your family. Of waking up at eight because you “just can’t sleep any later.” Of falling asleep at one because your eyes just close, no matter where you are in the house.

But it is not with regret that we doff the title of “twink.” No, it is with great eagerness that we leap into the void of “Mid-Twentydom.” Because we’ve only been on our own for three years now, and we’re just getting good at it. Our bodies have now been programmed to automatically steer us home safely, even if we are blackout drunk. We have restaurants that we know we like, in every neighborhood in the city. We know what to do when the L stops running. We cut off all those terrible friends we hated in college but hung out with anyway. And we’ve figured out how to sneak booze at work.

So here’s to the next five years. Because no matter how grim, soul-crushing, and emotionally stunting they may be, for every day of the next five years we will be able to raise a triumphant fist to the rampantly age-ist gay world and shout:

“Hey. At least we’re not in our motherfucking 30s.”