Evolving

So I'm now officially 25 and two days. And, although I'm now fighting obsession with the tiny laugh lines around my mouth and am pretty sure I spotted a spider vein in the shower this morning, I'm still, for all intents and purposes, perky in all the right places and have muscle tone in my upper arms, which is nice.

Also, I hear I'm still climbing to my "sexual peak", whatever that is, and won't start the hideous descent down the other side of this mysterious mountain until sometime after 30, so I guess I have that to look forward to.

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Last night, the girls took me out to dinner (Mexican and Mojitos) in my new city of residence, which is Kirkland (more on this later -- please don't send a lynch mob out for me before I have a chance to explain).

The meal was nice. The Mojitos were incredible, and all of the girls present were at least one year younger than me, which sounds demoralizing, but turned out not to be. I mean, yes, they totally kept insisting they'd heard from reputable sources that 25 was the "best year" of a young, single woman's life, which is the most obnoxious thing I've ever heard out of the mouth of a 23 year old with legs like a baby girraffe. But, after one Mojito they were shrill and shrieky and the center of everyone at the restaraunt's attention (in a bad way). We were THOSE girls. You know, the noisy, obnoxious ones who occasionally let the F word slip out just loud enough for the buttoned-up family across the restaraunt to hear. The herd of girls who are so engrossed with themselves and each other that they have utter disregard for everyone around them.

We were the irreverent representation of all that is fun about being young, kissed by summer and vodka, and every old person in that place actively hated us for it. Except the waiter, who spent most of his time fluttering around our table, clumsily filling up our water glasses, stuttering and blushing (when he wasn't trying to peer down the fronts of our shirts).

It was a good evening.
There was cake and a mishap with a lighter.
There were a handfull of cellphone photos taken, and even one accidental video (my phone is actually smarter than I am, which is terrifying).
There were a number of off-color jokes, old memories re-told, and something about the difference between a bolo and a bolero.

We were silly and free and ignored the few annoyed patrons around us. And when we stumbled out into the warm night, I was full of the abandon of youth. But after the air kisses and well-wishes and on my short walk home (gifts in tow and mint still on my breath), something changed:

I found myself looking forward to my quiet home, a glass of wine on my deck, and a chapter of my current book. I considered my job, which I love, and was thankful that I've found something that turns me on from 8 to 6 on weekdays, and I thought about re-potting my wilting Jasmine plant. And changing my oil. And what I wanted to do with the rest of the year.

And I realized that this transformation from child to something distincly more sophisticated isn't as abrupt or unnatural as I feared. It's gentle, and empowering. And I like it.

So, though I may be a year older, I've decided I've got at least two things going for me:

1. very immature friends who encourage me to just let go, and
2. the recognition that while youth is certainly a ball, there's nothing wrong with being happy to be right where I am; in the present, evolving.