Out of all of my friends who have watched it, I am virtually the only one who did not care for Fuller House.
Recently, I experienced my first feeling of dread at being in my thirties.
The moment was short-lived, but profound. Typically, I’m not one who obsesses over age. Hell, I still look like I’m in my early twenties. </HUMBLEBRAG>
But that’s a farce. Mentally and biologically speaking, I’m not in my twenties. I can no longer stave off hangovers with a simple combo of greasy food and Gatorade. (I don’t even drink much anymore.) I’m out of that stage where I can get away with making some stupid mistakes because I’m still learning what it means to be an adult, but let’s be real, I’ve never been a fan of making mistakes.
In my twenties, I was a grown-up, but not too grown. I was still free to be capricious and playful as I gradually evolved into a full-blown adult.
Now that I’m in my thirties, the time for trying-and-failing (and consuming copious amounts of booze) is over. I have to have it all figured out now. I have to be an adult. That’s what society says, right?