When I was 16, I frequently day dreamed about being 25. I thought I would have my dream job, my dream house, a gorgeous mister-fix-it-mister, two kids who were always quiet and never sticky, a dog who liked to sleep in late, a manicured lawn, an A.M. daily-yoga commitment and a penchant for baking pies that cooled in windowsills. To be fair, I also imagined that I would have a giant Clydesdale named Steve who would come to the window to eat apples and then fall asleep standing up. Lest you think I was too idealistic.
Instead of all that, I spend my single(ish–for census purposes only) non-mom-time getting dressed up for prom on non-prom days and pretending to be an ice dancer.
A Hungry Ice Dancer? Nope, that’s my I’m excited about prom face. I used to model.
So daydream-25-year-old-Laura never came to fruition. At all, really. I can’t imagine a place in my life where I don’t want the sleepy dog and the sleepy horse. I mean all those things are wonderful, but now that I am actually 25, I feel younger than I did at 16. I’m not sure I can handle the pressure of a grown-up life.
But its still a conflict in my head and in my closet and in my glass. I like to say things like, “This dish needs something bright” or “I wish I hadn’t opened this bottle of Sancerre yesterday, its dull and flat” while I wear mismatched sweats and can’t get my hair out of the knot that its been in for four days. I like to wear miniskirts and high heels to a James Beard nominee’s restaurant. I
like to sometimes miss class on account of too many PBR’s the night before, and then sleep in until 11:30.
I whip my hair back and forth. I make outdated hip-hop references.
The moral of the “story” is that I think 25 is actually fun, even though I hate it half the time. There is no right or wrong. Babies or no babies, husbands or hair flipping (or both), we pretty much have free rein (reign? rain?) this time in life.
The other moral is that I felt bad for my faux pas in yesterday’s post and thought I could make it up by putting up embarrassing pictures. Did it work? The last moral is that a blog about shoes and alcohol probably doesn’t need to be driven by moral reasoning, and I will take that into consideration in future posts. And the very last moral is that law school has made me obnoxiously reason-y.