I am not a bear, to clarify. Nor am I Jewish.
As of Friday, I am a quarter-century old. Like John Mayer, I am debating having a quarter-life crisis (assuming I live to 100). This will likely not include sexytimes with Jennifer Aniston, though.
For some reason I had always thought I was born around 3 or so in the afternoon. On Friday, my mom corrected me. It was actually 9:46 a.m., which seems entirely too early for me to be up. My mom claims she was laughing when I was born, thanks to the lovely epidural. This is a stark contrast to my older brother, where she 1) wanted to do it naturally and 2) had to be induced, which made the first thing a bad idea. They had to give her drugs to slow the labor because she was exhausted. Read any symbolism you want into that, ha.
I can’t mess with my brother too much, though. He was my protector when we were kids. My parents took me to the doctor as a toddler, worried by how little I spoke. The doctor looked at me and my brother together, and declared everything fine. “She can talk, she just doesn’t need to,” the doc said. “Her brother does it for her.”
To end the sweet stories, let’s talk about what a failure I am at 25. OK, not a total failure. I have a college degree and a job, and my own apartment. Plus a crapload of student loans. But maybe feeling like a failure is part of your 20s. I’ve heard the late 20s get better. I’ll let you know if that’s true. Or maybe my brother will.