Twenty-Seven

I'm on highway 27, bitches.  CREDIT.

Tomorrow is February 23^rd.  Or depending on when you’re reading this, today is February 23^rd.  Either way, this means I am turning a year older.  Like women tend to do, I already had my breakdown.  Driving around with Dreamy unsuccessfully searching for an outfit to “make me feel pretty,” I broke into tears as I navigated from the mall to my favorite local boutique.  It was classic “women turning twenty-seven.”  It was inevitably horrible it seemed.

I went through all the usual feelings amidst my sobs.  I wasn’t going anywhere.  I had no direction.  I was the oldest Hooters Girl trying to keep up with girls who couldn’t even legally have a drink yet.  My high school friends were all married and having babies and decorating fabulous little starter homes.  I was just an old, unmarried waitress well on my way to being a cat lady.

Now the point of all this isn’t to show you how sorry I’m feeling for myself.  What’s it’s really about is that I had my moment and proceeded to get over it.  Yup, I cried.  Actually, I bawled in a way that was anything but attractive.  But I also realized how ridiculous I was being.  I realized that though I’ll be older, I will not be old.

Yes, I’ll be turning twenty-seven, but at twenty-eight I’ll have an MBA.  I’m also in the best shape of my life, not because I’m eighteen and have a metabolism that is on fire, but because I work my ass off and take great care of myself.  Yes, I’m almost twenty-seven, but I am dedicated, motivated and going places.  I just don’t know where those places are yet.

But you know what?  I’m pretty excited to find out.