Being twenty something...

Inspired by a post a friend of mine posted, she made me realize something:
People put too much meaning in the age of someone.
"Age is just a number" isn't just a cliché.

I noticed how 9 out of 10 times, I gave the wrong answer to the question "How old are you?" if I did not rack my brain first and think before I answered.

Truly, I forget my age. All of the time.
And I wish more people would.

Growing up, as a child, I could not wait to hit my tenth year. Two digits were more than one, after all, and thus sounded way more dignified.
Once the two digits were reached, the next goal was 16.
At 16, my mum would allow me this freedom or that one.

At 16... I could not wait till I turned 18.
18, after all, meant my own driver's license.
Which I got. Quite soon after. Not only because of the reasons of freedom people generally get their license for.
And then I started the countdown till 21 (though by now, becoming gradually more aware that counting up and a downside), because 21 meant that I was officially an adult in any country that mattered.

I think that, personally, I stopped after I reached that goal.

In Egypt, people defined age differently, if you are a girl. At 16 till 18, you're wanted, desired. At 21, you needed to get out there and get yourself engaged. At the age of 25, if you're not married, then you should better get your butt out there and try harder. At the age of 29, it's hopeless. You'll probably be a single old cat lady. Forever.

Everywhere, though, there are age definitions. In your twenties, you roll into your adulthood. Slowly but surely, you get to know more responsibilities. Worries. Tasks. The world gets slightly heavier.
You get your first "grown up" paycheck. Then, though this age has shifted hugely in the west, your thirties and forties are the time you settle down. Your first house. Getting married (or hey, a steady relationship). Kids? Retirement.

Drastic, yes? So forget those molds.
Quit your job. Or don't. Change your mind. Do something crazy. Write a book. Keep a diary. Make new friends. Let things go. Explore the world. Explore the people around you. Discover new hobbies, talents, and desires.

Wander the street in your twenties.
Learn something new in your thirties.
Fall in love with something/someone new in your forties.
Go back to school in your fifties.

Nothing is holding you back.
Certainly not your age.
Age... it's just a number, after all.

Xx
The Gypsy

I love my job ... if I'd have one.

I love my job, I love the pay!
I love it more and more each day.
I love my boss, he is the best!
I love his boss and all the rest.

I love my office and its location,
I hate to have to go on vacation.
I love my furniture, drab and gray,
And piles of paper that grow each day!

I think my job is really swell,
There's nothing else I love so well.
I love to work among my peers,
I love their leers, and jeers, and sneers.

I love my computer and its software;
I hug it often though it won't care.
I love each program and every file.
I'd love them more if they worked a while.

I'm happy to be here. I am. I am.
I'm the happiest slave of the Firm, I am.
I love this work, I love these chores.
I love the meetings with deadly bores.

I love my job - I'll say it again -
I even love those friendly men.
Those friendly men who've come today,
In clean white coats to take me away!

- Unknown

I measure every Grief I meet..

I measure every Grief I meet With narrow, probing, eyes –
I wonder if It weighs like Mine – Or has an Easier size.
I wonder if They bore it long –
Or did it just begin –
I could not tell the Date of Mine –
It feels so old a pain – 

I wonder if it hurts to live –
And if They have to try –
And whether –
could They choose between –
It would not be –
to die –

I note that Some –
gone patient long –
At length, renew their smile –
An imitation of a Light That has so little Oil –
I wonder if when Years have piled –
Some Thousands –
on the Harm –
That hurt them early –
such a lapse Could give them any Balm –

Or would they go on aching still Through Centuries of Nerve – Enlightened to a larger Pain –
In Contrast with the Love –
The Grieved –
are many –
I am told –
There is the various Cause –
Death –
is but one –
and comes but once –
And only nails the eyes –

There's Grief of Want –
and grief of Cold –
A sort they call "Despair" –
There's Banishment from native Eyes –
In sight of Native Air –
And though I may not guess the kind –
Correctly –
yet to me A piercing Comfort it affords In passing Calvary –
To note the fashions –
of the Cross –
And how they're mostly worn –
Still fascinated to presume That Some –
are like my own --

--- Emily Dickinson.