Happy New Year, people! Did you miss me?
The last time we spoke was all the way back in 2014. That year is no longer. It’s 2015, and I can’t quite believe it. Let me put ‘2015’ into perspective for you: eighteen year olds today were born in 1997. Kids born in 2000 are not five, but fifteen (i.e. old enough to very likely get into clubs using fake IDs). We are 15% of the way through the 21st Century, and only 85 years away from the 22nd (85 years is below the average life expectancy of an Australian woman). 3D printers are an actual thing. We are in the future, and the future is now (I don’t know what that means).
2014 was the quickest year of my twenty-three so far. It was so quick in fact that I’d only just got used to writing ’14 instead of ’13 after the day and month. Oldies tell me that each year passes faster and faster, which makes sense considering that as we get older, a single year becomes a smaller and smaller fraction of our lives. At this rate, we’ll be ninety-six before we know it, our bones riddled with arthritis. (I assume you’re not already ninety-six considering you’re using the Internet.) Don’t get me started on the subject of time. Three weeks ago I saw Interstellar and I have not been able to think straight since. I’ve considered suing Warner Bros. for mental distress.
When the clock struck midnight on New Year’s Eve, it occurred to me that this year, I turn twenty-four. I am no longer a teenager. I haven’t in fact been a teenager for four years now but that hadn’t occurred to me either. I am almost in my mid-twenties. I am almost (not quite) a grown-up. An adult. In the words of Britney Spears, I am not a girl, not yet a woman (though very soon I will be). Holy moly.
Usually, the prospect of a New Year excites me. This year, I’m terrified. I’m not ready to grow up.
In fact, I don’t think I’m going to!