“You’re turning twenty five.”
My friends use it as an answer to my life queries.
My Dad delivers it like a death sentence.
My brother uses it to win an argument.
Around this time I thought I would’ve had my own personal assistant and driver, a premium one-bedroom condominium, a personal diet I followed resulting from my own cooking experiments, a fit bod at its prime, a careful curated quality wardrobe selection, tenure at a job that I’m highly skilled at, enough capital saved to fund a business, a thoroughly crafted stock portfolio, an advocacy that I’m devoted to and fighting for, a set of friends that resembled the cast of Friends or Happy Endings, a third language I’ve quite mastered, a relationship with my future husband that’s already at least a year in, a respectable amount of power and influence to have my own platform in the public sphere, and at least a stamp from every continent of the world.
That’s the success I envisioned for my 25th that I came up with on my 20th.
I currently have none of the things I’ve enumerated.
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