My twentieth birthday is in a little more than a month. I am unreasonably excited, because, let's face it, twenty is one of those less-exciting birthdays between eighteen and twenty-one. Plus, all of my co-workers and friends this summer are in their mid-twenties (at least) so twenty doesn't seem like such an accomplishment anymore.
One of the side effects of being so young is that I get all sorts of advice about life-experiences I've never had. It's enlightening. Also, it seems like my every decision can be attributed to my status as a youngster. Observe:
"Wait, you didn't go home with him?"
"No."
"Oh, that's right! You're only 19!"
or,
"You're up early. How late were you out last night?"
"Til about four."
"Oh, that's right! Your body can handle that because you're only 19!"
or even,
"Frites for lunch?"
"Yeah man."
"Yeah, your metabolism can take that because you're only 19!"
I'm officially the baby of all the interns at my job, but usually everyone forgets I'm so little. Usually I forget I'm so little. I'm in Europe and I have a big-girl job and I wear pencil-skirts and nude heels. I must be a grown-up.
I might have to readjust to being a kid when I get back to America in a month, to wearing jeans and flip-flops day-to-day, to being able to enter a building without undergoing an intense security regimen, to getting grades and not just an email from my boss saying I did a great job on my latest legal brief. I also might have to adjust to not kissing everyone on the cheeks when I see them. Don't be concerned if I do this to you stateside, friends. I'm not being frisky. I'm just Euro. I have French friends and it just caught on. Kiss. Kiss. Kiss. Three times. Except for my friend Christian, who always says "Non, non, une quatrième!" when I stop after just three.
I use the expression "I'm Euro" because a friend of mine told me, "When you get back to America, if people make fun of your clothes or hair, just be like, what? I'm Euro now." I plan on using that excuse when I just throw on whatever was on the floor and don't brush my hair. So most days.
In other news, I broke my bed the other day. In my own defense, it's a crappy IKEA bed, and I wasn't doing anything but sitting on it (too much cheese, clearly). I just sat down on the center, and there was an ungodly noise as four slats fell down to the floor and my mattress folded up like a taco around me. I managed to jam the slats back in, but it's been a pretty nerve-wracking couple of days ever since. Every time I go to lie down I hold my breath, and about half of the time it breaks all over again. Plus, of course, everyone gives you funny looks when you say you broke your bed.
