It's Happened...

I have been warily looking out for hallmarks of adulthood for a couple of years now. I fear the responsibility that seems intrinsically linked to the title of "adulthood." I celebrated my 19th birthday two years in a row under the truly dilusional impression that society expects more of twenty-year-olds than of teenagers. I have a degree - or two, in fact - but am not economically self sufficient, so dodged a bullet there. I work at a restaurant, and I am at turns pleased when people are surprised to hear how old I am and then offended when patrons are shocked that I could possibly be a manager (though, I will confess that the latter may have nothing to do with age, and more to do with my general demeanour favourite leather studded ring).

However, despite my cautious surveillance for hints that I could be approaching adulthood/self-sufficiency/independence/crowsfeet and fighting off all signs on the horizon, an indisputable indicator that boat races, costume parties and 3 am Wednesday night trips to Singapore Sam's for 7$ ginger beef may no longer be exactly age appropriate activities arrived on my doorstep.

Dun Dun.

Dun Dun......Dun Dun...Dun Dun. Dun Dun.

DunDunDunDunDunDunDunDun

DUN!

I have friends getting married. My friends. Friends I made binge drinking and bar hopping and playing rugby with. Not family friends. Not friends I was friends with when I was four and saw once every half dozen years since. Aly Feir and MudMaker. Friends who courted eachother by pretending they were going to go LARPing with me. Friends who have seen me go to the bar painted gold. Friends who I've quoted Jason Segal with. Friends I compared bruises with, ranted over America's Next Top Model with and kicked it in the quad like cliche liberal arts students with.

I knew this was coming before the invitation was tossed unceremoniously by my mother at my bathroom door. But it means it's real. It's not like my friend Alex and his boyfriend with the bluetooth plugged in his ear despite having had a brain tumour operated on at the age of 24, who, after dating for 3 months, swore "No, we're, like, for real getting married. We're going to have rings and a cake and a party and everything": the marraige about which I never heard of again. Aly and Baker are going to really get married.

And while it may not keep me from going to Kaskade straight after my 11:45pm flight from Paris lands, it does mean that 24-years-old is starting to look very different from 24-year-old to 24-year-old.

And it means that a wicked party is coming up.

 

And I am very, very happy for them.