I am twenty-five. There, I said it. I have been so for a handful of weeks, so I’m still getting the hang of things. Additionally, I’m still waiting for my Being an Adult: A Detailed Manual of Responsibility, Looking Awesome, & Proper Bikini Waxes* to arrive in the mail… any minute now. The reason I am effectively outing my age to you is because I spent the majority of my teens hurrying to grown up, and the majority of my early twenties trying to hang on to my stubborn youth. Finalement, at the icy peak of my mid-twenties, saddled with student loans, the hippest slang, and a detailed memorization of which Happy Hour starts where, I’m hella ready to live in the moment.

*this is a fictional piece of literature. Should Google verify its existence, please holler at me.

A lot of my high school friends are in the hay day of getting pregnant, or married, or dogs, or some combination of the three. And while I’m over-the-moon happy that they’re finding joyous fulfillment in this baby-married-dog life, I am in no way ready (or legally qualified) for this for three very specific reasons:

  1. I don’t have a boyfriend/husband/babydaddy. You have to have a boyfriend/husband/babydaddy to get pregnant (according to MTV).
  2. I don’t have a boyfriend/husband/babydaddy. You have to have a boyfriend/husband/babydaddy to get married (according to Pinterest).
  3. I don’t have time to pick up dog poop. Also, I don’t have a yard.

Truth be told, I admire the way my peers handle the baby-married-dog situation: I only know one friend-of-a-friend-of-a-cousin’s-friend who ended up on Teen Mom. So, save a few, minor “WTF For Real? No, Seriously?” cases, my homies have the whole ‘Maturity & Looking Awesome Taking Care Of Babies/Spouses/Dogs’ thing down to a science. As for me, I’ve got other priorities.

Let me put it this way: my best galpal and I are more excited about the latest technology, sporting event, or food/beer combination. Those are our babies [food babies; I’m in my second trimester, thanks for asking!]. For example, if she were to welcome home the latest Apple gadget, we would react as if she were welcoming home a fresh baby from the hospital. We would gather around the sparkly machine, wide-eyed and cooing things like:

“Oh, it has your sleek lines!”

“Cuuuute, it definitely has Steve Jobs’ lips!”

“Dang, that baby is fresh.”

“Hell yes, you should totally enter it in pageants!”

I will never tire of watching the baby-married-dog situation of my peers play out on Facebook, that I can promise you. Some of those chubby babies, dogs, and spouses, are my day-makers (and Thinspiration)! At this point in my quarter-century of a life, it’s safer, and more fulfilling, for me to watch from a distance. So while they’re keeping me in the loop on the swankiest new wedding venue, or how their dog knows more words than their toddler, I’ll be dancing like a mega-dork in ankle deep mud at a music festival to my favorite band in the entire universe and letting you know how fan-flippin’-tastic my last meal was. Also, I still listen to New Boyz’s “Better With the Lights Off”. I feel like you should be legally obligated not to do that in order to procreate.

My questionable taste in Chris Brown-related music aside, I love being twenty-five-ish, and I’m hella happy being sans baby/husband/dog. I might, however, feel differently about this if I find myself in my fifties publicizing my lack of a baby-husband-dog, and if I do find myself there in another quarter-century, there’s always CATS!



^^ I’m sorry, Chris Brown, is there a better way to take “You look better when I can see less of you”? I can’t help but think you skimped on your electric bill and want to play it off as a compliment. Luckily, this jam is more catchy than venereal disease, so I’ll let it slide.

Irish-Catholic mothers have a very, very specific type of man they want to see their daughter latch onto. If you’re not Irish, or Catholic, here are a few of the qualities these momzilla’s* look for in a potentially eligible bachelor for their female offspring:

*these might just be MY mum’s requirements

  1. Is he Catholic?  // Irish?
  2. How Catholic? // How Irish?
  3. Does he celebrate St. Patrick’s Day?
  4. If yes, is there a parade involved? If no, why don’t you bring him to our family’s annual parade (subtext: then you could confirm to everyone that you actually know a straight [Irish-Catholic] man!)
  5. Does he have great hair?
  6. If no, why not? (to put it nicely, “Later, gater.”)
  7. Is he a liberal?
  8. If no, why not? (to put it nicely, “Hit the road, Jack.”)
  9. Does he have a job/car/apartment/college degree?
  10.  If no, why not? (to put it nicely, “GIT OUTTA HEYAH!”

That being said, I broke every rule in the book when it came to dating. Yes, ladies (and fashionably intuitive men), I brought home George of the Republican-Party-Jobless-Degreeless-Carless-Band Jungle. Now, I’m not saying there’s anything particularly wrong with this type of person, unless, of course you have my Irish-Catholic, luscious-haired mother, in which case, everything is wrong with this type of person.

I should have known this person was very, very wrong for me on every blatantly-stated, Irish-Catholic level when my mum first greeted him wearing a fake arm I had fashioned out of plaster in 11th grade (yes, this really happened. On the FIRST meeting. After I asked her very nicely NOT to embarrass me with the plaster arm thing.) At the time, I was a newly independent college freshman, listening to a lot of newly independent, emotionally freeing music. That, and I loved guys in bands. I was nineteen, gimme a break. I’m proud to say that now I am an emotionally mature twenty-something with a decent head on her shoulders, thanks in large part to my fantastic, angelic-haired mother and practical, straightforward father, and I’m here to share with you some of the comically genius, brilliantly blatant advice my parents have passed down to me, such as: “Honey, no one that cute is single, and no one that single is straight.” -Mum

Lesson learned: Listen to your parents. Unless, of course, your parent is Tom Cruise in the height of his Scientology, in which case, run. You’ll thank me later.