25.

Well kids, I’m officially old. A quarter of a century, to be exact. That’s right. On the 18th I turned 25. I spent the week and half or so celebrating this momentous occasion, from seeing both Grace Potter and The Raconteurs at the Ryman to singing karaoke while eating a cookie cake with my senior picture self in the middle. The only thing that could have made all the happy birthdaying any more epic would have been if Jack himself had sang to me from the Ryman stage, and let’s be honest, we’re not there yet, kids.

Turning 25 makes me think back to when I turned 16. I wore seersucker and I distinctly remember telling my best girlfriend at the post-party sleepover that I couldn’t wait to turn 25 because that’s when you become established. Who knows what episode of “Saved by the Bell” I got that from, but I was convinced of the inevitable transformation that would occur on this particular year. Truth: I am not at all the girl I was at 16. I’ve grown taller and hopefully smarter, been on my own, loved and lost people I will always adore, and had my fair share of mini-breakdowns and moments of pure happiness. Now here I am at 25. I’m somehow allowed to (attempt to) shape young minds every day, and while yes, sometimes I want to yell mean things and run away from the creatures called 8th graders, I am thankful for the opportunity and welcome the challenge. I have solid friends who keep life oh so interesting, and no, I do not need the anti-aging cream just yet. Oh, and I can now rent a car. I’m pretty neutral on my level of excitement on that one, but hey, it is a perk that comes with this age.

So here’s to being 25. Turn up the music and roll the windows down.

I’m happy.
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