My birthday cake read 27 and Flawless in purple icing.
It was encircled in a ring of burning, brightly colored candles and cookie dough chunks with an unbelievably high cholesterol content, I’m sure. My sister switched off the lights and everyone began singing the Happy Birthday song; I promptly took out my iPhone to snap a shot of this sugary masterpiece glowing in the dark, with the very intention of Instagraming-it later. I’m one of those people: 27 and Addicted to Instagram.
What else does being 27 entail, you ask?
It would seem that it means an abundant amount of things, really. In the year since my first birthday in Los Angeles, much has changed. For starters, I am now a mere three years from the big 3-0 as one of my Twitter Haterz pointed out recently. Secondly, it should be noted that I now have a total of 2 Twitter Haterz, which – if you ask anyone – means I have arrived.
At 27 I’ve gotten in touch with my stereotypically feminine side and have started collecting shoes. I didn’t necessarily expect that said collection would revolve around multiple pairs of pink and purple high-top sneakers, but hey – it’s my party and I’ll hoard like it’s the 80s if I want to.
At 27 I’m down to four cups of coffee per day, still don’t wear deodorant for fear it will give me Alzheimer’s, and am finally taking seriously my duties as an automobile owner and going for a regularly scheduled oil change. After all, I’m an adult.
I find myself using that phrase fairly frequently: I’m an adult. In fact, I’ve noticed many a 20-something doing the same; but I say, “I’m an adult” in the way the Wolf says, “I’m your grandmother” to Little Red: deception as a means of getting what I want or need. Do I use Excel? Of course, I’m an adult. Can I be trusted to drive your Audi, Mr. Bossman? Sure thing, I’m an adult. Can I eat cookies for breakfast? Fuck yeah, I’m an adult!
I’m 27 and Faking Adulthood.
Or at least I thought I wasn’t until my pal Merriam-Webster was all like, “girlfriend, please, of course you’re an adult (noun). You’re a fully grown person or animal.” Great Scott, could it be true?! M-W went on to inform me that “only adults can purchase alcohol,” which means I’ve been an adult since that time I used some voluptuous Latina’s ID to buy some Burnett’s blue-raspberry flavored vodka when I was 19. Shout out to the overweight Greek man at Campus Liquor for doing me that honor. I’m thinking of you and your greased-up mane tonight as I throw back a Vodka & Crystal Lite and weep for the loss of my childhood.
This week, at 27, I spent half my Monday in the office, unaware I had a rather sizeable coffee stain covering my right breast (the only difference for the latter half of that day was that I was aware of it). This week I stress-ate Cheetos Puffs for dinner sometime between 9 and 11pm for 3 days in a row. Late Thursday night, while driving home from work, I became directionally challenged somewhere around that place downtown where the 110 meets the 5 and like six other freeways. As a result, I had to switch lanes quickly and ended up aggressively cutting someone off and then slamming on my brakes in order to not rear-end the person in front of me. That person behind me turned out to be my boss. Upon that realization, I must have flailed my arms rather dramatically as I inadvertently knocked my car into neutral gear. My boss passed me and looked dead into my soul with anger and disappointment. Of course, I didn’t realize I was in neutral and instead concluded that my car was malfunctioning; I decided to drift to the closest median, started calling my boss, realized I was just in neutral, hung up on my boss, and proceeded to have a mental breakdown. Fortunately, he did me a solid and didn’t mention it on Friday.
That’s just this week.
My sister picked 27 and Flawless to adorn my beautiful me-day cake not because that statement is true, but because she knows I like to take my pants off and dance aggressively to Beyonce when I’m alone. #IWokeUpLikeThis.
More accurate cake-top phrases would have included:
• 27 and Hocus Pocus is Still Her Favorite Movie.
• 27 and Scared of Elevators.
• 27 and Incapable of Leaving Short, Concise Voicemail Messages. They Always Include Far Too Many Details, In Addition to Whatever Other Thoughts Are Going Through Her Head. One Can’t Put Into Words How Awkward This Can Be, Especially When It’s a Professional Voicemail. It’s a Wonder Anyone Hires Her Anymore Because This Happens All the Time.
Of course I’m not Flawless, I’m entirely Flawfull (the fact that I’m using that word proves my point perfectly). But by 27, I’m living alone in Los Angeles and – for maybe the first time – I’m less concerned with explaining who I am because I’m finding it much easier to simply be her. This year, I spent my me-day surrounded by friends, playing Ms. Pacman and sipping Michigan Modoris. I still don’t know what a Michigan Modori is, but they were the color of 90’s Nickelodeon Green Slime and they tasted like juice so happy birthday to me. It should also be noted that I set the high score on the Ms. Pacman table that night.
I’m 27 and a Work in Progress.
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Happy 2nd Birthday, Love and ADD.
And to our millions and millions of fans, thank you for your time, your love and your support. You keep me young.