Let’s be clear: I have no desire to rewind to my 21-year-old self. That would mean revisiting the immaturity, shaky self-esteem, unpaid bills, a parade of questionable relationships, perpetual hangovers, and the nagging anxiety about never finding the right partner, never achieving my dream of being a writer, and always struggling to pay rent on time.
These days, however, I find myself feeling a bit nostalgic. While my life has turned out quite well—actually, it’s been pretty fantastic—I can’t shake the feeling that perhaps the most exhilarating moments are behind me. I mean, I had a blast back then, right?
Life is settled now. A decent, if not spectacular, resume. A wonderful partner, two amazing kids, a cozy house with a stylish kitchen, and a slightly neurotic dog. Yet, here’s what’s been eating away at me:
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The thought of my upcoming high school reunion makes my stomach churn. Thirty years? Really? It’s not just the memories of awkward adolescents that haunt me; it’s the realization that iconic bands are now considered ‘retro.’ The ’80s fashion is back in style, and I can’t help but remember my old perm and funky haircuts. Thankfully, I graduated in 1995, just before everything became a documented online spectacle.
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I finally caved and joined Twitter after a push from my editor. Seriously, why does everyone feel the need to cultivate an audience? Why are we obsessed with getting followers, most of whom are complete strangers? Facebook at least connects you with “friends,” but Twitter seems like a desperate bid for fame or, worse, infamy. It’s all so overwhelming—it makes me feel ancient. #NotAFanOfTwitter
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I watch shows like “Modern Muses” and can’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. Am I the only forty-something woman who feels both disgusted and envious while watching this series? Sure, the characters are often annoying, but their carefree lives and spontaneous choices take me back to my own wild days. (Though I never had the fabulous hair that one character flaunts; I was stuck with my own unfortunate perm!)
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I find myself secretly devouring novels by authors like Jamie Green. It’s a bit disconcerting when your precocious 11-year-old daughter is fighting you for the same well-loved copy of “The Fault in Our Stars,” and you’re left in tears by its emotional ending. Her sarcastic remark? “It’s not that sad, Mom.” Ouch—talk about a reality check.
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I stash away Bubble Yum and Tootsie Pops in the back of my kitchen cabinets. I joke with my spouse, a die-hard “The Sopranos” fan, that I’m pulling a “Ginny Sack,” just like that character who hid sweets to satisfy her cravings. Even though I’m fit and healthy, I indulge in these sugary treats just like I did at 7, 17, and yes, even 27. Candy, I can’t quit you—adulting be darned!
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I regret not fully realizing my own potential when I was younger. Only now do I see how much influence I had back in my twenties. The media world is dominated by the youth, and those who manage to stick around into their middle age seem rattled by the fresh faces and their enthusiasm. Why did I waste time feeling insecure? Why wasn’t I more assertive?
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I’ve recently developed a snoring habit that rivals a freight train. My grandmother used to make a racket when she slept, and it seems I’ve inherited that trait. I thought staying fit would spare me this fate, but I was wrong. My partner has woken me up multiple times for my loud night-time symphony. Oh well, I guess that’s just part of growing up.
In summary, while adulthood comes with its share of challenges and realizations, it also brings moments of reflection, nostalgia, and a few guilty pleasures. Whether it’s stashing sweets or reminiscing about our youth, we all face the transition into maturity in our own ways.
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