I got call old at the bar this weekend. Yes, a 23 year old called me old.
And yeah I kinda guess to a slightly tipsy 23 year old being 25 is old.
Sunday, I was officially 90 days away from the big 2-5.
YOUR MID TWENTIES. THE DOWNWARD SLID TO 30.
[I kid, I kid.]
I've been fighting the personal demon I can't seem to shake of close friends moving on to different stages of life and feeling like I'm being left behind. And this weekend was no different. I was content with bringing files of work home, getting Jason's Deli to go, and sitting on my ass with a Redbox marathon. And then I realized that I'm [still] 24, live smack dab in the middle of downtown, and need to get my butt out there instead of just ranting about it to mom.
And that's exactly what I did.
And it was awesome.
After standing in line at ACME for exactly 30 seconds, we made the executive decision to move the party over to Midtown for some ReBar fun and Bushwackers all around. I saw guys I grew up with, sorority sisters, and an ex from the summer. A very well rounded night indeed.
Sunday was full of spring freshening for the house, budget book updating for me, and a very much needed 4pm mass date with mom.
What's that thing they say, a Sunday well spent brings a week of content?
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