It's mid-July. I've been 27 for two weeks.
What have the late 20s been like so far? Well.
You make buffalo chicken dip for the office potluck even though there will be too much food (there's always too much food) mostly so the other ladies in the office won't give you a side eye.
You line up your shoes in the shelves where they belong instead of lying in doorways where Hurricane Andrea disposed of them like fallen trees before blowing out the door, late to work, because tripping of them will only slow down the hurricane and make it angry.
You're still working on your punctuality. You'll always be working on your punctuality.
You buy bright pink lip balm. You think you look ridiculous but a controlled kind of ridiculous, like the temporary tattoos you used to doodle on your arms with a Sharpie when you were 13 and wanted something permanent that you could regret. You never got those tattoos, but you embarrass yourself by taking photos of yourself in public to make up for it.
It's not all buffalo chicken dip and lip balm, pals. Some of the not-so-good stuff that have been hanging around for years are still there, like outdated clothes meant to be dropped off at the Goodwill that eventually make their way back to your closet. You only really make your bed in the winter or when you know someone is going to see it. You cover your chin whenever possible because chins are to you what necks were to the late great Nora Ephron. You know it's not healthy to listen in on other people's first dates in coffee shops rather than going on ones of your own but my god, this guy is never going to get laid if he keeps talking about how awkward the date is going as it's happening.
Each week, a new article becomes the essay the internet can't stop talking about, and lately they've been ones that give me a mild anxiety akin to five cups of coffee. If it's not the usual topics (marriage, kids, and Having It All), it's about the how the youth are in financial ruin, how friendships after 30 turn to dust, or how having a cat makes you crazy. I'm thankful though that I'm not where I was five years ago or so, where it would have pushed me into 10 cups of coffee anxiety. I can take whatever worries the world throws at me and I think that means I'm happy. Or I'm happy because I can take the world's throws? I don't know, but I think I'm okay.
If this was a made-for-TV romantic comedy, I'd end this with something like Just because I haven't fallen in love doesn't mean I haven't tripped over it. I can practically hear Jennifer Love Hewitt saying that. Instead, I'll just leave you with this: I don't have the answers, I just have myself.
And I ask is for Lifetime to let me play myself in She Rolled Hey Eyes At It All: The Andrea Disaster Story. If Joan and Melissa can play themselves, anyone can.