20 years.

When the clock notched past midnight last night, my friends here in gtown wished me happy birthday. IT was nice and I reveled in the attention, but it didn't feel any different. Birthdays rarely do. Even after I got my presents, wax and an "F" seal to write letters with, a nice card and, of course, a life-size cutout of Princess Leia in the gold bikini, I was overwhelmed with the thoughtfulness, but the whole birthday thing hadn't hit me yet.

Today, however, on my way back up to campus from Booey's, with my usual Duke sandwich sitting warmly in my stomach, it hit me, as a wise man once wrote, like a sledgehammer tied to the front of a frieght train. I've been around twenty years. It's not that I'm some fraction through my life that feels weird. It's these twenty years. That's two decades, two "I love the..." specials on VH1. For some reason, I'm just blown away by this feeling. To have that much life behind me is what makes me feel ancient. It's both paralyzing and moving. Frightening and reassuring. Two decades. One in which we're guided along the way, the next in which we're observed and advised but basically left alone. Now, we enter the solo flight. Yeah, sure the parents are there, but how many of us have suddenly looked at our parents and caught them furtively leading their own lives? That's just it. It's our show now. Our parents are invested in it, but it's not about doing right by them anymore (although that may have just been me through high school).

And where am I at 20? My future has three levels that I can see now.
First, the fantasy: to be in movies, to make the things I love so much and meet all the people I am enthralled with (much to the chagrin of all those critics of the effect of celebrity).
Second, the escape: to be published and thus transport myself, through a decent amount of sales, out of...
Third, the parachute: the whole actuarial business. It's appalling how much I don't think about this when it's what I tell people I'm going to do with my life. And at the same time, I can't just pull out of it cold turkey. I'll be the first to tell you that I don't want to deal with my mom if I was to tell her that I just want to be a writer. She knows I write. She knows I'm good at it. But somehow she couldn't make the leap of faith to let me forgo a "real" job. So there you have it. I quite frankly don't have the balls to pack up and try to make it in movies. It's the dream and thus I only see the benefits, me on a red carpet, or in front of the camera with my favorite actors. I don't think about the hard work involved. With the writing, I know the hard work because I do it all the time. I'm constantly fighting with myself to keep going. I guess if I could have anything happen, realistically that is, it would be for me to finish my current project, edit it and get it published. Maybe enough people will take notice and I'll still pursue my Math and English degrees and go straight into writing and teaching.

But all this is overthought. All I really have to concentrate on is getting my work done and sticking to my writing. Maybe I'll keep a sharp eye out for anything that might make the first scenario happen without really sticking my neck out. Who knows?

I'm 20. It took me a long time to get here. Looking back, some points stretch it until it feels much longer than 20 years, but there they are. Some of them have been so wonderful that it's almost painful not to still be there. Right now, while I'm having a great time with my friends here, I feel like I'm in a transitional period, probably because neither of my jobs pertain to my plans, and yet three months seems like a lot of precious time to put aside as transitional.

Anyway, this has all gone a lot longer than I intended. I'm twenty!