Youth without youth

I have always been the youngest. The youngest in my family, the youngest of my friends and certainly the youngest at work. But lately I've had to accept that my youth is a thing of the past. This realization occurred with the introduction of "the new kid" at work, a name he is not aware I use. And while he is very professional at 22, I sometimes glance over at him in meetings convinced he wished he were at a keg party; that the middle-aged corporate drones talking about market share were really college kids doing shots. I think this because I was once in his shoes (and in some ways still am). There was a time when I was 22 and looked at my older coworkers as cynical, old people who just didn't get it. Whatever "it" was.

I always said 28 would be my "adult" age; the age where I would finally grow up, take responsibility and, I don't know, really care about my 401K. But 28 came and will soon be gone and all that it's brought me is the urge to stand in front of the mirror, twist my face into exaggerated expressions and search for hidden wrinkles. I haven't found any so far, but I know they're coming.

I would love to say being mature is way better than hiding behind the naivety of youth, and in most ways it is. If given the choice, I would never trade the knowledge I have now for the uncertainty of my early twenties. I would also love to say I could care less when someone is shocked of my age, but I do care. Today a bank teller asked me if I was investing my money for school and I said, "Ah, no...I haven't been in school for awhile." "But you look so young!" she said. I wanted to leap over the counter and hug her for calming the nerves I didn't know I had. But I stayed in my chair. I'm 28, afterall, and such reactions would be immature. I just smiled and said nonchalantly "Nahh, but I get that all the time!"