Welcome to a new kind of tension

Today, through the combination blessing-and-curse that is Facebook link-sharing, I discovered a blog post, written by a random 20-something woman* on the topic of how 20-somethings are constantly yammering on about how "old" they are, a complaint that the blogger takes to be simultaneously understandable and absurd. While there are, as she points out, plenty of generally legitimate reasons why quarter-centenarians "feel old" (at least comparable to their happy-go-lucky, responsibility-ignorant, Mountain-Dew guzzling teenage selves), when it comes down to it, 20-somethings gripe about "feeling old" because we know darn well that we're actually enjoying the prime of our lives. We're furnished with the benefits and pleasures of a real adult life (e.g., independence, car rentals) with little-to-none of the soul-crushing adultish tidbits that too often accompany middle-age (e.g., high cholesterol, divorce). In the blogger's words, "We’re just the generational equivalent of the thin girl who goes on endlessly about how fat she is just to reaffirm that she is, in fact, quite svelte."

* I'm making a blatant, stereotyping assumption that the blogger is a woman, based on patently unfair but (let's face it) probably accurate textual and visual cues in the blog, such as the colorful background design and the fact that the blog is described as "A journey through: life, music, & pictures." 

I think the blogger's point is convincing, but I also have my own, slightly different hypothesis about the "whining 20s" phenomenon. The blogger takes the optimistic road when she blames the generational griping on youthful narcissism; in my mind, saying "I'm so old!" can just as easily be attributed to the impulse -- epidemic among my kin -- to deny that adulthood is happening. After all, using the phrase "old age" handily sidesteps the necessity of using the word adult. When you're busy concentrating on whether ending a night of barhopping at 12 a.m. rather than 2 makes you a wrinkly, decrepit old man ready to go home and don his Ebeneezer Scrooge nightcap and enjoy a glass of warm milk, you've skipped straight over adulthood, going directly from "peppy youngster" to "wheezy grandpa," creating an imagined world in which, as long as you're not said wheezy grandpa, you can still be considered young.

Speaking as an early- to mid-20 something, I can personally attest that it's straight-up hard for me to admit that I am (or will soon be) a full-fledged, no-holds-barred, unqualified, taxpaying adult. When TV personalities, journalists, or politicians refer to "the youth," I still automatically assume that they're talking about me. This knee-jerk impulse might actually be accurate for politicians (Wikipedia informs me that "the youth vote" generally refers to anyone 18-29), but there are other statisticians who place me dangerously close to not being "youth" anymore. According to the World Bank and the United Nations, my youth will expire in December of this year. According to the United States Department of Transportation, I already haven't been youth for three years.

Arbitrary age limits aside, functionally speaking, I am indeed an adult -- a young adult, but an adult nonetheless. And, even as a vivacious 24-year-old youngish person who still essentially has her entire life ahead of her, admitting adulthood is something that can be difficult to swallow without a slight twinge of "AHH! MORTALITY!" 

Diligent readers of my blog, at this point, would likely exclaim, "But Linda! You've professed to being an adult since before you turned 21! How can you possibly be reluctant to fess up to adulthood now?"**

** I'm impressed, surprised, and a little frightened by your studious readership and attention to detail, Diligent Reader.

I believe there's a difference between, on one hand, recognizing that your current life habits match the Adulthood Checklist ("I have a job, pay my own rent and bills, and cook for myself. I must be an adult!") and, on the other hand, recognizing that you no longer functionally fit into the category of the mosh pit-dwelling Youth. That latter realization is harder to come by. It's true that since 2008 I've been snottily patting myself on the back for checking off major points on the Adulthood Checklist ("I pay bills! Lookit me!") -- but even as I gloated, I still mentally retained my Youth Card. It was there, waiting for me, on the off chance I ever wanted to, say, move back into my parents' house, or spend an entire evening systematically categorizing/eating gummy bears while watching Boy Meets World on DVD.

Sometime in the last four years, though, Real Adulthood moved into my demographic and has been eying my Youth Card incredulously ever since. Renting an apartment, for example, is no longer a point of pride for people my age; it's expected for anyone not economically drained or emotionally crippled. Relatives are no longer surprised that my friends are getting married, but have started asking me sly questions about my own marital future. Hardly anyone I know wears t-shirts as their everyday dress anymore. Suddenly, and without warning, I've become embarrassed about the fact that, by any respectable measure, I can't cook.

It's a thing to be celebrated, really. So far, for the most part, being an adult kicks ass, whereas being a youth entailed a lot of friendship drama and severely unstable cash flow. But even if you think you're ready for it, being on the verge of relinquishing your Youth Card undeniably entails a paradigm shift -- and if the epidemic "I'm so old!" anthems are any indication, it's one that a lot of people my age are struggling with.

Incidentally, there are only 65 days until my sister's wedding. What a grandma!