If you asked me how old I am, I would catch myself saying 25. And while nearly saying 25, I would be nervously calculating just how close 25 is to 30...and then slowly remembering that I'm still only 22. Which is odd, because last year I thought I was 17.
Suddenly I feel the weight of every single life landmark I have left to reach: graduate as a total smarty-pants, marry a hunk I'm crazy about, craft a career I love, take at least one European jaunt, make a zillion beautiful babies, buy a fab-u-lous home and somewhere in the middle experience enough personal fulfillment to figure out just what I'm supposed to be doing for the rest of my days.
Because growing up I was a total goodie, I can distinctly remember the feeling of realizing that I'd forgotten to finish my homework. One second of all-consuming panic, followed by an intense cold sweat and mind-numbing nausea. That's what it feels like. Like I'd better start frantically scrawling down some friggin' answers, lest someone realize that I'm so, so unbelievably far behind.
Am I normal? (Someone please say yes.)