This is me the day I was born.
Today I am 27 years old, which basically means… nothing. Other than, in my head, 27 was always the age that I assumed meant one is truly an adult.
Obviously that is bull shit.
But I was glad to read Shoko’s post and see I’m not the only one that thinks 27 is a magical number. Back in the day I would read YM or Cosmpolitan or one of those types of magazines and one of those columns towards the front of the magazine would be men weighing in on an issue like “what makes a woman sexy” and they’d have a little text bubble and then a picture of a cute guy, his name and age and whenever I’d see someone that said “Mark, 27” or something like that, I’d think, “wow, now that’s an adult.”
There is no explanation for the magic number. But what is it that I was expecting to find by my 27th year?
It’s hard to say. I guess I thought and wished for more clarity, less absurdity and a feeling of clairvoyance. I thought by 27 your (everybody’s) life was more mapped out and certain.
This was a rather unfortunate assumption to make.
As it turns out, 27 actually is quite young to people over 30. It also turns out that no one has a clue about the future, so planning can be construed as futile in an instance such as: being alive.
The lack of capability to predict is actually the most comforting thought as I’m heading into my new year on Earth. My lack of plans or job or boyfriend or big exciting news feels (or is?) a huge gift. Of course, it is the result of a lifetime of coincidences and choices and free will and what not. Am I getting to existential for you?
Don’t worry, I’ll save the existential crisis for 28.