I am embarking on my final weekend as a twentysomething. I’m celebrating by having Dori up from Portland, driving up to Bellingham for a friend’s birthday, hopefully going out to dance to some funky music, and then having a housewarming with a few friends on Sunday. My birthday itself will be filled with meals made by friends and family, and a trip to Olympus Spa to be scrubbed clean. I will be like this cicada!

A few weeks ago I was thinking about the essay I was going to write about how great it is to be done with my 20s because hoo boy! It’s so nice to be so solid in my self-identity, and be really acqainted with who I am. I finally know myself!

Then I realized that I’m actually having an petit mal identity crisis and grasping desperately as some of my twentysomething ways slip away, and that maybe I’m not quite so confidant as I thought I was. I guess there are those who greet their 30th birthday with disappointment, musing about how far they thought they’d be by this age, etc. I feel like I’m having the opposite problem. I’ve accomplished so much — who is this successful adult I’ve become? And does successful mean boring? Who am I if I’d rather go for a walk at 10am than go to a club at 10pm? It’s sort of confusing. Not scary, mind you. Just a little disorienting. I know that certain things that used to be really gratifying aren’t any more. But I haven’t quite figured out what I’m replacing them with just yet.