Nobody Likes You When You’re 23

Age 23: A.k.a. The Year When Nobody Likes You

If any of you plan on turning 23 anytime soon, plan for a very lonely year. From the day you turn 23 until the day you turn 24, people literally stop liking you. In their defense though, why shouldn’t they? 23 is a stupid age. And it’s a known fact that people get noticeably less pleasant the second they turn 23. Side-effects of being 23 may include, but are not limited to:

• Violent mood swings, most of which involve fists being thrown
• Foul odor
• Frown wrinkles
• Diarrhea
• Low self-esteem
• Accidental pregnancy
• Dramatic hanger
• Looking like this:
  

  Me at age 23. I was really hungry that day…

The weekend of my 23rd birthday, I had two friends basically tell me they were fed up with me. And they didn’t even collaborate to tell me that, they just happened to both say it on the same weekend, and that weekend happened to be right after my birthday. One of those friends had good enough reason to be fed up, and all is well between us now. But the other friend literally got mad at me because I invited her to my birthday party. You didn’t read that wrong–she didn’t get mad because I didn’t invite her to my party, she got mad because I did. She said she really hates it when people try to force their birthday celebrations onto others. Then she crawled back into her pit of she-demons and I never heard from her again.

But the loneliness of 23 doesn’t necessarily have to be a bad thing. It’s the perfect opportunity to binge-watch TV shows on Netflix (Parks and Recreation is a great mood-lifter), discover new genres of books to like (I realized shortly after turning 23 that I rather enjoy angsty young-adult fiction, like Perks of Being a Wallflower), and travel the world to “find yourself” (whatever that even means… it just seems like an excuse to do something CRAZY, like combing your hair in the opposite direction).

And speaking of traveling the world, I was 23 when I went on my study abroad to the UK, which was the adventure of a lifetime. So while I experienced some of my lowest points at age 23, I also had some of my best experiences as well. In fact, I believe Charles Dickens was the first to describe the life of a 23-year-old when he wrote, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” Or maybe he was writing about two cities. Either way, the words are applicable.

Besides, the friends who are worth your trouble will stick around through age 23, even if they like you significantly less for the better part of the year. Be patient with them… someday they will be 23 too, and you’ll have the opportunity to not like them right back. Everybody wins!

I Don’t Know About You, But I’m Feeling 22

Age 22: It’s miserable and magical.

You knew this was coming. I couldn’t do a mini-blog series about songs mentioning specific ages without bringing Taylor Swift’s 22 in the mix. How could I sleep at night knowing I had missed out on such an obvious golden opportunity?

I admit, it might be a little “cliche” and “predictable” for me to use this song, but I don’t care. Say what you want about T-Swizzle, but she sure knows what it feels like to be 22. It’s almost like she was 22 herself at one point.. but that’s impossible, because we all know robots don’t age.

Nothing captures the essence of 22-hood (it’s a word I invented, deal with it) quite like the words “happy, free, confused, and lonely at the same time.”

On paper, 22 is a great age. You’re old enough to make important choices–like what you’re going to do with your life or who you want to become your main pizza supplier–but not so old that you have to make these decisions right away. When you’re 22, it doesn’t really matter whether you’re earning a master’s degree or binge-watching a new show on Netflix, because chances are you’ll be doing something completely different with your life in ten minutes anyway. If you’re unsure about your life’s path, people go a little easier on you because “you’re still young” and “there’s plenty of time.” You’re not quite old enough for people to ask, “Why aren’t you married yet?”–unless you’re Mormon, in which case you’ve probably gotten that question sine you were 12.

I wish I could have told myself all this when I was 22. Unfortunately, I was too busy struggling with a serious disease called existential angst.

Stupid 22-year-old me! I shouldn’t have felt existential angst until at least two years later. But oh well, it is what it is.

I started asking myself questions like, “Where am I going?” and “How will I get there?” Eventually I realized that I was going to campus and that I would get there by walking, because I didn’t have a car or bike. But then as I walked to campus, I started thinking about the big picture. Every decision I made was a stepping stone toward the future, for better or worse.

For example, I remember feeling like I needed to move to a new apartment complex the summer after I turned 22, even though I liked where I lived. I thought for sure God was telling me to move somewhere else so I could meet my future wife. Spoiler alert: He wasn’t. I went on several dates in my new apartment complex, but nothing ever came of it. Actually, I shouldn’t say nothing came of it. There was that one time I went on a blind date, and afterward the girl accidentally sent me a text that was meant for her friend, explaining how awkward her date had just been. So something did come out of my dating life that year–something terrible, yes, but something nonetheless.

At 22, it also became painfully clear to me how unstable life is, especially as a college student, when your surroundings are constantly changing–from friends getting married to favorite shows being canceled. In the blink of an eye, everything can change. This realization made me feel like everything was going to fall apart, and in some ways, that’s exactly what happened to me at 22–not that I need to get into that now. I’ll save that for my future memoir, Woe Is Me: Stories to Be Told With a Violin Playing in the Background.

But 22 had its share of perks as well. I strengthened friendships and developed new ones, all the while weeding out the suckers who weren’t worth my time (you know who you are, Laquesha). I went to the Bahamas and got a killer tan that I’m pretty sure has still not quite faded away. And since I was already tan, I decided I might as well take some time to try something I had never really done before, a strange ritual called “exercise.” The result was that I looked better at 22 then I probably ever did before or since, and that’s worth something, even if I was confused about my existence the entire time. Yes, I was wounded, but I was also beautiful, like a gazelle that has been shot.**

Me at 22, being angsty about my existence as usual. I had just woken up from an existentially angsty nap and was very much chagrined.

**No gazelles were harmed in the writing of this blog post.

21 and Invincible

Age 21: 21 and invincible

When I turned 21, I was coming to the end of a two-year church mission in the Philippines. I had survived learning a new language, taking cold showers, and fighting off vengeful cockroaches for the better part of two years.

While many people ring in their 21st birthday by taking their first (legal) drink of alcohol, I rang in my birthday hoping that a giant rat wouldn’t run across my face. I listened as I heard the unmistakable squeaking and rustling of a rat so vicious that it was tearing chunks out of my bedroom wall. I just knew that the rat was the size of a mini-horse and that it wouldn’t rest until it had eaten my entire family.

Even today, I sometimes wonder how I survived my mission. I was completely out of my element the entire two years. And I’m not just talking about living in a third-world country with gigantic soul-sucking rats. Going on a mission for me was probably similar to what it would have been like if Kristen Stewart had tried out for the cheerleading team–awkward, painful to watch, and with lots of falling.

My introverted personality did not always mesh well with the rigorous social demands of missionary life. I was constantly expected to interact with other people, which was annoying because I generally think people are the worst. They’re smelly, mean, and they always get in your way. Luckily, Filpinos were pretty cool for the most part. The only problem was that I was often the only white person in sight, so while I am pretty talented at flying under the radar in America, such was most definitely not the case in the Philippines. I was basically a celebrity there, only without the leaked nude photos and ridiculous amounts of cash. On more than one occasion, I was chased down by a group of teenagers who wanted a picture with me. Everywhere I went, people yelled at me, everything ranging from “F*** you, man!” to “Hey–I’m single!” One man even came up to me and told me he loved me. Another man hugged me and gave me a very awkward, wet kiss on the cheek. He died a few weeks later… I think he might have been deathly allergic to my face. So I was popular and deadly, as a true celebrity should be. The attention was amusing at times, but more often than not, it left me feeling overwhelmed.

I wish I could say my borderline-celebrity status was the hardest part of my mission, but that would be a lie akin to “I did not have sexual relations with that woman.” My mission pushed me to my mental, physical, and emotional limits, As much as I loved my time in the Philippines, I was constantly tired, anxious, and hungry. And I’m pretty sure I got a parasite at one point, because I had wasted away to nothing more than skin and bone. My thin frame combined with my large nose gave me the shriveled appearance of an emaciated seahorse–all I was missing was a tail and the ability to get pregnant.

Me at age 21–this is a video my family took of me right after I got off the plane coming back from the Philippines.

When it was time for me to go home, I was so exhausted that I just fell into a deep sleep, a la Sleeping Beauty (minus the beauty and post-traumatic fear of sewing needles). They had to ship me back to America in a crate full of demonic Furbies (one of which had a VERY unhealthy crush on me), but at least I was still alive. I had survived my mission, the hardest thing I had ever done in my life by far. Indeed, I felt 21 and invincible. I felt like anything lying ahead would be easy compared to what I had left behind. I was dead wrong, but it was a good feeling to have for a while.

Though I can’t exactly say my experiences at age 21 were “typical,” I think it is pretty typical to reach 21 and feel like you can conquer anything… only to have that notion demolished as you reach ages 22 and 23.

You Won’t Be 17 Forever

Age 17: You won’t be 17 forever…

I loved 17. It was SO much better than age 16, when the spoiled rich kids at my school threw taco shells at me because U drove my parents’ mini-van to school (not that I’m complaining. I was proud to own the only mini-van in the parking lot, and it definitely made it a lot easier to find my car). And it’s DEFINITELY better than 18, with all of its impending responsibility.

Yes, when I turned 17, I was finishing up my junior year, which was undoubtedly the worst year of high school. Looking back, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was at the time. But gone was the endearing wide-eyed innocent youth of freshman year. I realized that band was the worst and high school was something I was excited to leave. I found that the world was a cruel place to live, as was evidenced by the existence of the ACT (not the standardized test… “ACT” is actually an acronym for “Angry Chemistry Teacher”) and the success of shows like Two and a Half Men.

But at 17 I also started my senior year of high school. I loved senior year almost as much as freshman year. Even though the cynicism I had developed in my sophomore and junior years was still very much alive, I just loved being at the top of the school (not literally, of course… I would not trust the roofs of that poorly-constructed school to carry my heavy bones) and knowing that I was about to be done with high school forever. Adulthood was just around the corner! And I was completely oblivious to how insanely difficult adulthood would be, so I was excited!

What was more, I got HOT in my senior year. Because we had record-breaking temperatures that year, and it was Arizona, which means it was REALLY hot. Oh, and also that was the first point of my life where I realized that I could possibly be seen as “an attractive person.” Per my older sister’s desperate pleas, I got new clothes (i.e. shirts that you could button up and did not have footballs or scenes from Star Wars on them) and started putting gel in my hair (instead of just rolling out of bed and hoping that my hair looked OK, which usually resulted in someone yelling, “It looks like you just had sex!” at me across the classroom, much to my embarrassment–mostly because my Mormon-induced sexual repression made me cringe at the word “sex” even at age 17… and probably up until age 23, to be honest). People started noticing me and saying I was “good-looking.” My mind was blown. Take that, nerd table that rejected me in 7th grade! Who’s laughing now? Actually, probably still them… most likely they are more successful and a lot richer than I am. (Bows head in shame). Nevertheless, I was finally good-looking! Still incredibly awkward, but good-looking, so the awkwardness was endearing now! Oh, and the popular girls started talking to me. Granted, it was mostly to tell me that I was in their way. But still, they talked to me, instead of just pushing me to the side like they used to!!!

Needless to say, 17 was a great year. It was, for me at least, the last year of innocence in some ways. It was the last year I could just be a kid… even though I would have probably hated it if you had called me a kid at the time. “I’m not a kid!” I might have exclaimed. “I’m 17! I’m a senior in high school, which means I’m mature! Also I have almost TWENTY dollars in my wallet!” Now I realize that I was not mature at all… also, maturity is overrated, and I hope to never be accused of possessing that quality. If anyone ever calls me mature, I will most likely start crying and screaming, and maybe pee on the spot to put the proverbial icing on the cake of immaturity.

But most of all, 17 is a time to make mistakes. Oh wait, that’s every year of life. But I feel like 17 is the last year you can make a mistake and just blame it on the stupidity of youth. “I know I crashed a car through your house, but give me a break, I’m only 17!” sounds infinitely more reasonable than “Yes, I broke into your house and ate all your fruit roll-ups, but what can I say? I’m only 24!” That’s why at 17, we need to take chances, make mistakes, and get messy, as Ms. Frizzle of The Magic School Bus fame would say. After all, you won’t be 17 forever.

Me at age 17

15 – There’s Still Time For You

Age 15: There’s still time for you.

By age 15, I was coming to the end of my freshman year of high school, which was pretty much everything that 7th grade was not. I loved being a freshman. I OWNED the school that year, with the tiny little exception that I did not even own it in the slightest. But I made lots of friends… granted, I can’t remember most of them anymore, but I’m pretty sure there was a girl named Joan who tried to sell me illegally imported cupcakes behind the school barn. I politely refused, not because the cupcakes were illegally imported, but because they contained mint. Come on, Joan! You know I hate mint. That’s a rookie mistake.

There are three things you should know about me at age 15.

1) Joan is not a real person, and there were no illegally imported mint cupcakes to be spoken of.
2) I was an extreme band geek. I called the band room my “second home” and my AOL screen name was “Band Geek 4Ever.” I’m not proud, but it’s a part of my past that I have to live up to.
3) There’s not really a third thing, but I believe all lists should come in threes.

Now, there is at least one other song I could have potentially used to describe myself at age 15. The song that comes to mind is Taylor Swift’s “Fifteen.” The reasons I chose not to use this song were threefold:

1) I never had any dreams of dating a boy on the football team.
2) I think Taylor Swift is secretly evil. No woman disses both Tina Fey and Katy Perry and escapes my judgment. Having said that, “Blank Space” is the bop of our generation and should probably win a Grammy at some point. But regardless, EVIL!!!!
3) Again, all lists should come in threes.

“100 Years” is a better fit because at age 15, you literally do have your whole life ahead of you. Well, except for those fifteen years that have already passed.

I was so wide-eyed and innocent my freshman year, I might as well have been a doe– a deer, a female deer. But I was no doe. I was a freshman boy. And I thought high school and band were the epitome of awesomeness. How stupid I was. OK, maybe I wasn’t stupid. I got an A in Ms. Kotalik’s Honors English class, which is the equivalent to winning a presidential election… for the student body of your preschool, not the United States. Sorry, that was misleading. The point is, the class was hard, but I did well in it. So maybe I wasn’t actually stupid, but I was certainly naive. But it’s OK because I still had lots of time to grow up, just as the song suggests. What’s my excuse now?? (Insert scared emoticon here. Or maybe just one of those emoticons that looks like poop, for no particular reason.)

Me at age 15

What’s My Age Again?

How old are you?

Be honest. Did you have to think for just a second before you remembered the correct answer to that question? If not, have you ever been momentarily stumped about how old you are?

(All of these questions are purely hypothetical, of course, so please don’t start leaving comments like “you don’t ever ask a woman her age!” or I will delete the internet!)

Seriously though, there have been times where I had to think for a moment after somebody asked how old I was. The doctors say it’s because my mom dropped me on my head as a child. The other day, my co-worker asked me how old I was, and I just automatically said, “Five.” I had completely forgotten that I’m actually 24! OK, so that didn’t really happen. More often I will think for just a split second that I’m a year or two younger than I am. It’s like my mind hasn’t quite caught up with my body. Though my body’s actually behind my mind in some ways, because I look a lot younger than I am. I’m sure that will be an advantage someday… but for now, it’s just annoying.

For those of you who, like me, sometimes have a difficult time remembering their own age, fear no more! Lucky for us, we live in a world where music is constantly reminding us what life feels like at any given age.

This upcoming Sunday, I will be turning 25. Unfortunately, there is no song that I know of that describes this age, so I have no idea what to expect. All I know is that I will most likely have a quarter-life crisis of some kind… except I’m hoping the one I had at age 24 will suffice.

In the days leading up to my birthday, I will be taking a walk down memory lane via this blog. Unfortunately for all of you, I found enough songs to do DAILY mini-blog posts on Monday through Saturday of this week, which means my blog will be disgracing the interwebs for the next six days in a row. Yep, that’s right, I’m going to become one of THOSE people. But only temporarily… after the week is over, I will resume my old life of only posting sporadically.

In each of these “mini-blog posts,” I will highlight just a few of the songs that refer to specific ages. I will post a youtube link for each song just in case you want to listen, but if you don’t, I will list some key lyrics from each song that I feel describe the age quite nicely. As an added bonus, I will post a picture of what I looked like at each age, because nostalgia.

Ignore these posts if you must. Whether you read them or not, I’m sure they will become a hit. I expect over two Americans and one random person from Lithuania to have read one of these posts by the end of the week, so yeah, they’re a pretty big deal.

And without further ado, we will start with the first step in this ridiculously unnecessary walk down memory lane.

Age 13: You’re not asleep, but it’s a nightmare.

Oh, teenage angst! How I miss you.

Age 13 was probably the second year of my “awkward phase,” a period of my life that lasted for fifteen years. No, you didn’t do the math wrong… The awkward phase actually isn’t over: I still have over two years to go!

I was in 7th grade at the time, and I could count the amount of friends I had on one hand. I’m kidding, of course… you can’t count to zero on your hands! I was in a period of violently uncomfortable transition at this point. Not only because my acne–which had started as early as 4th grade, lucky me–was acting up worse than ever… and not just because hair was starting to grow from places I didn’t even know could grow hair (stop being grossed out, you guys, it’s natural… grow up). The main transition was finding my place in the lunch room. I had lost most of my friends to that complete skank Pepper Ann (who, contrary to popular belief, was NOT much too cool for 7th grade, thank you very much), so I was forced to take my talents elsewhere. I was quickly rejected from the athletic table once they figured out that I was scared of large, round objects flying at my face. So I moved to the nerd table, but even they were too cool for me. In the end, I found friends in a group of people that I had never realized I could be friends with before. This group of people were called “girls.” I succumbed to the cooties, and before I knew it, I had friends again. Way to go, 13-year-old self! And a big high five (because that’s what I did as a 13-year-old, since I hadn’t learned how to hug yet) to P!nk (because I know you’re reading this!) for perfectly describing my experience as a teenage girl… I mean boy!

Me at age 13