WHAT?
I’m getting older?!

I mean, yeah, I know I’m getting older, but it never even occurred to me that age would be the reason for this hangover differential. I just figured I was drinking more now on a given night than I would back then (although I’m not sure if that’s entirely true – most of the time I feel like my alcohol tolerance has lowered).

But really, how could three years make such a big difference hangover-wise? It’s not like I’m 80. I’m only 21. That’s not old.

In the last two years, I have seen myself turn from a teenager into a “young woman.” I have been focusing on how great that is, but maybe there’s another side to the story. Sure, it’s great not to feel grouped with the “irresponsible, consumerist teenagers”¹ and instead with the hip, urban 20-somethings. Sure, it’s great to be able to dress older, be taken more seriously, and treated like a lady. But once the novelty of being a 20-something wears off (as I’m sure it will in one or two years), will I just feel old?

Already, everyone younger than me feels too young. I don’t know what that means exactly, but there’s a feeling of disdain in my mouth whenever I see them. “Oh, those first-years. They have no idea what’s coming.”
I can’t date younger men because men my age are already too immature for my taste, much less the fresher boys. We’re looking forward to different things. I’m looking forward to the start of my dream career, of moving halfway around the world by myself and proving my worth. They’re looking forward to the rest of their university career, of doing well on exams and meeting girls at parties. I read the business section of newspapers every day to keep up-to-date on what is happening in the financial markets. They keep their iTunes playlist updated with the latest Billboard hits.
And yes, I was once in their shoes. But just because I can see their point of view doesn’t mean I can’t think it juvenile and silly.

Although sometimes, I do miss the silliness. I miss being entirely ignorant about world affairs. I miss being so short-sighted as to not know where I was going to be in three years, only caring about my next mid-term. As much as I whined that I was over the “university scene,” I kind of miss the feeling that my real life had not started yet.

And now, I am on the brink of something real. In many ways, my real life will matter so much more, and so much less, than my university life.
Of course I am terrified. I will be expected to transform, overnight, from a backpack-lugging student to a briefcase-toting adult. Meritocracy will morph into some combination of performance and ass-kissing. There will be no individual exams, I will be dependent on my coworkers to help me succeed, even if they are the back-stabbing kind. If there’s anything I learned from my summer, it’s that I need good coworkers. If I hate my coworkers, I will hate my job, even if I love my job (if that makes any sense).
So yes, I am terrified. I am terrified that I will be disappointed by real life. I am terrified that the world is not my oyster. I am terrified that the truth may make me cynical and old.

Suddenly, being young, ignorant, and downright silly seems like a blessing.

1. Although I’m definitely a consumerist 20-something.