As I settle into the third month of my twenty-sixth year a few things have become glaringly obvious. First and foremost is the inescapable truth that I need to start making better use of my free time, because quite frankly I have a ton of it. Clearing out my DVR and walking 3 blocks down York Avenue to grab some much-needed toilet paper just isn't cutting it anymore. I am in desperate need of a few hobbies and suggestions are welcome. Thus far my list consists of the following time-taker-uppers: Embark on writing my very first enchanting and best-selling novel, commit two nights a week to becoming a Serena-style tennis player, and sign-up for that second photography class that will undoubtedly lead to a Pulitzer. Far-reaching? Maybe. But damn if these aren't inspiring me to get off the couch and succeed.
A second, and rather shocking fact that has become quite clear now that I, along with most of my friends, are in the second half of our twenties is that working out has become a priority. Now, before you all point your slender fingers this way, I will be the first to admit that my workout habits of late are nothing short of abysmal. So let's focus on others for a hot second... What I have picked up lately is that friends that never once entered a gym and made every excuse to stay away from physical activity are now champions of spin and running 5K races every other weekend. I guess this is the age where both men and women realize that their body is a temple, and not one just to visit on Friday nights to sneak a peek at David Goldstein. Hey-yo.
But the thing that has been on my mind for some time now is the realization that while we meander through decades three and four the truth is that anything goes. It is such a weird and socially flexible time that while some of your closest friends are popping pre-natal vitamins and searching online for the best running stroller, the other half might be popping mollys pre-dance party and searching online for their next great lay. And at twenty-six both are acceptable, some of it illegal, yes, but age-wise it is acceptable.
While it is not exactly comforting to be on the side of club drugs and Internet trolling, I must say that there is no need to freak out just yet. This grace period, that I have arbitrarily established between the ages of twenty-six and roughly thirty-five puts me right at the beginning of what I would now like to call "anything goes." Now, if nine years pass and I find myself still stuck in these same "anything goes" habits I have one of two options. The first, and most appealing, being to extend the grace period as I see fit. I made it up, I certainly have the right to extend it. The second option, of which I am much more reluctant to explore is the possibility of entering the sisterhood. And not the good sisterhood where you get to wear Greek letters and congregate in a gigantic mansion, no. The one where you are forced into a vow of celibacy and given black and white muu-muus to wear day in and day out. In an effort to avoid the habit, I'm returning to only one option, the extendable grace period.
Nothing like a good nun tangent to throw one off course. What I'm really trying to get across here is the strangeness and vast lifestyle differences that occur during this time in one's life. I have student friends who stay home during the week to prepare for their next exam. I have newly wealthy working friends who have been making monthly mortgage payments, and on time to boot. I have friends who still don't know their limits and go just as hard at a Tuesday happy hour as they do for their best friend's bachelorette party in Vegas. And all of this is OK. It's a time in life when we are way past the teenage pregnancy scares, but far enough from the ringing alarm of our ticking biological clock to feel comfortable. Some have picked up and moved half-way around the world because they had nothing holding them back, while others are driving smiling, sticky kids off to pre-school. Anything goes.
So how do I feel about where I am? Well, the truth is that there is very little I can do to push things along to the car pool stage in life. And in MY humble opinion I'd rather be pulling back then pushing toward dirty diapers and early nights. Maybe that is why I stay in New York City... a city where the single walk around in droves and are OK with it. A city where your apartment is so absolutely tiny that the thought of housing another human being, no matter how small, is an impossibility. This place makes a single twenty-something feel like they are right where they should be. Sure, it's a scapegoat, but it's also just right for some. I'm fairly confident that as long as I stay within the comforts of this crazy island I will not be escorted to Sunday brunch by a gang of strollers.
Now, the funny thing about this age is that priorities can shift in a split second. And while we are safely in the anything-goes grace period this is allowed. I can't promise that after meeting my best friend's future babies I fall so head over heels with the idea of nurturing a mini-me that I swear off alcohol-infused nights forever. But, as I have learned the hard way, never say never.
For now I'm going to work on those hobbies. And because I am in the sweet, sweet bubble-wrapped safe space of "anything goes," I reserve the right to go out until 5am on a Friday and stumble home with a broken shoe and the beginnings of an epic hangover, just to wake up the next morning to attend a co-worker's pink and blue baby shower adorned with diaper cakes and binkys as far as the eye can see. I mean I'm twenty-six, anything goes, right?
