Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman – Confessions of a 26-Year-Old

I’m honestly just tumbling down the hill on the other side of 25. Everything is on cruise control. Sure, there are still some over-bleached, seriously appalling epiphanies that spill into my consciousness from time to time that remind me how big a fucking loser I am (like the time I came home—ahem the other night—and curled up to a full glass of red wine and leftover four-day-old birthday cheesecake for dinner), but otherwise I feel less loserly than I did in previous years. Or maybe it’s just that, thanks to Broad City and Tina from Bob’s Burgers, being a loser-but-it’s-okay-because-it’s-funny-and-somewhat-endearing is actually en vogue here in Brooklyn 2015. Nerd chic. Love it.

For example, it’s okay that my coworkers don’t respect me in a leadership position because they’ve seen me cry so many times in the office that it’s a running joke in my department (one time I was synopsizing the sad scene in Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron to two coworkers when tears started streaming down my face … another time, I straight-up cried getting my flu shot and someone from HR had to hold my hand…). REGARDLESS. Still not as bad as when I used to mistake Bridget Jones’ Diary for an old home movie of myself, or when I used to get kicked out of my local bar for wildin’ out too hard (thank fuck the changeover is so rapid in that place that they can’t keep staff long enough to remember my mistakes from the week prior).

Overall, I mean, as far as the hoodrat/Broke Bitch lifestyle goes, my life is pretty glamorous. I have a dog with a now-glistening white coat, just like I wanted (to match my bed sheets). An evergreen ‘win’ if I ever knew one. I still have my job, where my ecosystem either has not yet caught on to the fact that I’m insane or outright mistakes my crazy for sass. I have yet to be shot, as a bystander or as a participant in an altercation, on my street. My fourth-floor walk up keeps the pounds off my person. I am one half of a faux hip-hop duo named J’Asian (not to be confused with Jay Sean), because my musical counterpart is my favorite LA Jew. I am also part of a witch’s coven at work, aka the ultimate form of social acceptance in a professional environment and overall safeguard against bad juju from 10am-6pm.

Sure, I’m still searching for ways to make myself rich; however, because my boyfriend is honest and still has all his hair, I’m out of commission (for the time being) hunting for blanco corpses desperate for the love that only money can buy. The whole coattail/piggybacking idea can still sustain itself though, just not via the Real Housewives route. I need my #squad of bad bitches to really step it up this year and start lunching me like I deserve. In the meantime, I’m doing as my mama taught me and making my millions by myself. “What would Beyoncé do?” as they say.

Speaking of my mother, I’m just really grateful that she remembered my birthday this year. So what if my sister reminded her? So what if it was only a text? I consider this forthcoming year #blessed. And, more generally, so long as my parents are contented that I’m able to pay my own rent in New York—as in, never mind having any semblance to robust savings here—I’m solid. After all, they both know damn well that I lack the coordination and general rhythm to shake it for them dolla dolla billz. It’s hard to live above the poverty line as a stripper when you’re kinda fat and your one party trick is an aggressive shimmy. ANYWAY. NO NEED! Because in their eyes I am killin’ it at 26.

Honestly, the only things I need to consciously work on are a) investing in actual vases, not mega pickle jars and pretending I’m Bohemian; and b) maybe finishing hanging all the shit I bought over the course of the past year and a half up on my walls…

Signing off at 26, from BedStuy, Brooklyn.

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