Quarter of a century

It's official: I'm 25. So far, a quarter of a century looks great; I can't tell you how excited I am about the future. I woke up, and the world somehow became brighter and more beautiful.

This week has been full of surprises. I interviewed for an Assistant Editor position on Wednesday, and it was botched in the best of ways possible. I was greeted by a stunning woman donning a gray Banana Republic dress, and I followed her kitten heels through the office. Immediately, I liked her -- and felt she would be, in some irrational, inexplicable way, important to me. Within fifteen minutes, she concluded the interview with some careful discernments.

"Listen," she said. "To be honest, this position isn't for you -- you'll be bored. If you want my advice, figure out what it is you want to do, and find a way to do it, and don't waste a year on this job. You're young."

She also asked if I would talk about my Master's thesis, a book I wrote and quickly threw aside out of embarassment. To my surprise, she deemed the concept interesting, and requested I send her sample of my writing to see whether I might qualify for freelance work. She mentioned something about developing a book out of it, but the details, understandably, are blurry. "No promises," she said, as she handed me her business card. You'd think I'd be disappointed, but instead I smiled, almost laughed.

For years, I've wanted to be an editor. For years, I've been told I'd make a suitable editor. I've worked on book projects, I've taken courses, I've read the books. Perhaps I would've made a stellar Assistant Editor a year ago, or three years ago. But now, the shoe just won't fit. For a long while, I've wondered if it's even what I would like to do. Having the notion quelched was, in actuality, a terrific relief; no longer am I chained to this outdated dream of mine, but permitted -- nay, encouraged! -- to start fresh. The second interview of the day? It went very well. I slipped into those peep-toe heels and, instantaneously, felt at home.

I rang in 25 digitally with my close friends, Anne and Kim, at midnight. The next day, I slept in late, ate a delicious cheddar and jalapeno omelet, drank too much coffee, and devoured an intensely fragrant, juicy grapefruit that I bought the previous day in Chinatown. Glorious! Just as I reconciled myself to a day of cleaning and possible solo wine drinking, Andrea came to my rescue and proposed a night out. Dinner, drinks and Dawson's Creek; it's hard to beat that trifecta. And so after strolling around Yorkville, reading and walking, we met up and wandered down Yonge before entering a Thai restaurant.

The rest of the night becomes about as clear as my interview with the editor -- the result of putting away an entire bottle of brut champagne by one's self, in addition to the girly cocktail I enjoyed at the restaurant made of vodka and passion fruit liqueur (a birthday necessity!) The next day, when I awoke with a massive headache and walked around my hot apartment, I experienced the downside of being 25. I'm no longer nineteen, or even twenty-one, and therefore can't bounce out of bed ready to take on the world. Or the sunlight. My face lies, but I'm slowly but surely getting older.

I think I'll try 25 for a while.

Things I have learned in the last year:

-Fresh potatoes taste extremely earthy in the best way;
-There is something really lovely about wishful thinking -- for the less religious among us, it's all we've got;
-People in the American south know how to party like nobody's business -- there must be something in the Maker's Mark;
-There's nothing wrong with a little Taio Cruz to jumpstart your day.

So I raise a toast to another 25, surrounded by great food, great drink and a fabulous community of friends and family who make the living worthwhile -- cheers.