It's tough being 27; more than being 25, maybe less than being 28. It's the now-or-never year - the year you finally stop being a fence-sitter and fall (or maybe are pushed) into grownuphood. Not a nice feeling, especially if you keep looking over your shoulder, "Which idiot pushed me? C'mon! Own up!".
There's nobody there. If there ever was, they've run off long before you scrambled to your feet to dust the mud off your trousers. So what are you now: girl or woman, boy or man? Blur the age difference with, "I'm just one of the guys", but that doesn't change a thing does it? In the newspapers, a 27-year-old no longer qualifies as a youth. You've made the transition into the "young man/woman" category.
Yet, even if you heave an unwilling sigh and accept the final move into adulthood, you'll find others who are not quite ready to let you pass. "Where's your pass?" they'll shout. Where's your award? Where's your money? Where's the recognition? Where's the spouse? We can't let you pass without all that, they'll say. And yet, they are the ones who are secretly wishing you would grow up quicker. Wishing and hoping and waiting and pulling you back into babyhood. Doing this again and again and again, until you get fed up and yell, "I'm all growed up Mom. You stop acting like a child!"
And then Mom (or Dad, for they are one and the same thing really) will look at you hurt, walk away and proceed to act like a hurt baby. So what do you do? Quickly jump back into babyhood to make them feel all growed up again. Then it is back to the struggles of being 27 again. How old are we really?
