Cats have nine lives and none of the crisis.
Quarter-lifers wearing high-fashion yet with the street-smarts — in movies — were my sorority mothers to adulthood. Like, “hey, when I grow up am working for a Miranda Priestly and become a woman of the world.” I was 19 or 20. Not a million existential questions were cramped in my brain yet; but by 23 I’ve decided to ditch the mental self-interrogation as well.
The questions have not stricken back by far, but may be only biding their time in my amygdala, where recent experiences are processed into long-term memories. So I’m expecting them any minute now.
“Epiphanies are hard to come by,” my favorite Bianca Consunji essay once said. I’m expecting but not expecting. So any minute now could mean any minute from now until I die; and I know you’re getting the feeling I’m channeling Gabriel Garcia Marquez on crack but failing, because I really sound like my obnoxious self . . . on crack. It’s because, at 25, I haven’t got a shot at Andy Sach’s life. Worse, I’m writing more stream-of-consciousness posts than ever. High time for the haunting by the existential questions, from which I haven’t heard anything yet. It’s been two minutes.
Must get back to browsing The Sartorialist, Etsy, Anthropologie, the groupons for IKEA imports chance-upon, Thought Catalog, IMDB just in case I play any derivatives of “Six Degrees to Kevin Bacon,” The Oatmeal, etc. All my sorority sisters. Epicurious reads too grown-up for me. The high-fashion pages, too pretentious. 9Gag and Tumblr, too kitschy. At 25, I wonder if I’ve grown so little, now shopping with my own money. But that’s that. I’m not even sure I still want a caramel macchiato in tow as I run pell-mell on a revolving glass door in an NY high-rise, where a caffeine-deprived Miranda Priestly waits for me.