Well, here I am at a more mature blogging site. I guess at 25 this is what you do: set up a blogging site that looks like something a mature, yet still fun and carefree, writer would choose, instead of the not so mature blog I had before.
I don’t think I like being 25. I think 24 was a great age. It was just old enough to be trusted but not old enough to be given too much responsibility. If you mess up as a 24-year-old, it’s almost expected. “Well, you’re only 24 — these are the kinds of mistakes you’re going to make.” But 24 sounds much more trustworthy than 21 or 22 — those youngin’s aren’t even out of school yet, how could they be trusted?
But when you’re 25, it’s what feels like a whole new ballgame. At 25, you should be old enough to “know better.” You should be getting your career figured out and making choices that will pump up your resume. You’re supposed to think seriously about your career goals and aspirations for the upcoming year. And it’s serious: your performance on these goals could make or break you.
At 24, people don’t expect you to have answers. “She’s only 24, she’s taking the time to figure out what she wants life to be. She’ll get settled into things when she’s older, like 25.” You’re allowed to sound like a bumbling idiot in conversations because you have no experience in the business world and aren’t expected to have those “big picture” ideas everyone wants. But at 25, you should be spending your commute time thinking about how to improve all the processes at work and developing efficient ways to implement those new processes. My commute is about 6 miles, which usually translates to 15 minutes. I’m spending that entire time listening to Lady Gaga’s “Just Dance” and wondering why the guy next to me would have a Norm Coleman bumper sticker. Does this guy know nothing about Norm Coleman? Why would he want to hurt the country by re-electing Coleman? What other bad choices does he make? Or maybe he doesn’t even like Coleman; maybe it’s his wife’s car and he is actually an Al Franken fan, and he feels utter shame being in that car with that ridiculous bumper sticker. I bet he’s worried he’ll see Al Franken. He’s never met him before, but this will be the day, the one day he had to drive his wife’s car because he loaned his car to an unemployed friend who had a job interview that could change that friend’s life for forever. By the time I have conjured up this guy’s life story, I’m exiting on France Ave. and pulling into my office’s parking lot.