I'm 27 now, as of Friday. Barclay's boss threw me a little birthday party at the office and gave me a card with a sheep on it that said, "Get well soon." I walked down to the art street festival with Barclay and visited the art gallery with Julia and Ruth and I got breakfast in bed and cheesecake and ice cream at my in-laws' after supper and I Skyped with my parents and Liz brought me macarons.
I also realized how obsessively I've been talking about that new Tom Hanks movie (Saving Mr. Banks) because I now own two copies of it as well as the anniversary edition of Mary Poppins.
27 feels so strange to me, probably because I'm perpetually stuck at 22 in my mind. I think I will always "be" 22. Even when I'm 98, I will be 22. I will look in the mirror at all of my wrinkles and think, "Dang. I'm wrinkly for a 22 year-old." I will look at my friends and think, "Man alive, I have a lot of elderly friends for such a young bird." I will look at my house and think, "Wait. This isn't my house. Where am I?"