So picture this: I walk into the convenience store wearing tights, a leotard and Heelys. To avoid attracting more attention (though I'm the only customer on the property, and I am wearing a leotard, so I don't know I could possibly claim MORE of the attendant's attention than I already am) I refrain from rolling to the back of the store and instead sort of tiptoe, because I'm not that used to my crazy shoes yet. I grab a gallon of milk and bring it to the counter, where Robert, as his vest tells me he's called, asks, "Aerobics or dance class?" "Dance class," I say, which is closer to what I've actually been doing (trapeze) and since I'm entirely uninterested in explaining what I've really been up to. We spend an awkward (at least to me) 30 seconds just staring at each other while Robert bobs his head to some instrumental metal and we wait for my debit card to be approved. I get in my car and drive the 100 yards home, where I immediately pour myself a glass of the milk I just bought. It tastes like shit! Like bleach! Or B.O., I'm not sure which. The suckiest part is that Conrad and I bought a gallon of milk at the store last night and I immediately poured it all down the drain. It tasted like fish. You know that scene in Napoleon Dynamite where he's tasting the milk at the FFA fair? Well that's me, in real life. I am a true connoisseur of milk; I drink about two gallons a week by myself. Milk is the ultimate refreshing beverage, great after a workout, with a pizza, hell, even with ice cream. I can't get enough of it. I can't even tell you how pissed I am to have bought two inferior jugs in a row.

Let's back up: Wednesday was my birthday; I turned 24 years old. Conrad, genius that he is, gave me a pair of Heelys, among other gifts (including a Nancy Drew computer game). I was totally shocked and psyched--this man is brilliant and definitely the Best Person Ever. Shoes with wheels=ultimate silliness and uber-rockness. Just since Wednesday, I've become a Heelys pro. I thought it would take longer, but it's pretty simple if you have good balance. As an added bonus, I was definitely the only adult rolling around the grocery store last night.

Other than my presents, my birthday was wonderfully awesome: I got lots of beautiful gifts, time to spend with people I love, a smorgasboard of tasties and lots of wishes from lots of people. But to tell the truth, I approached this birthday with a little ambivilance: after all, my Golden Year is over.

If you aren't aware of what your "Golden Birthday" is, let me tell you: your Golden Birthday is the year the date of your birthday and your age are the same number. So because my birthday is on May 23, my golden birthday was my 23rd birthday; naturally that makes my 23rd year my Golden Year. And it did not disappoint--in my 23rd year, I held a job I love, was asked to join the dance company I've wanted to be a part of for years, was in great shape and very healthy, was very happy and in love, got engaged, got married, went on an incredible honeymoon with my husband, and in general, spent what I consider to be the best year of my life (so far). That's awesome, yeah? Well, there's a superstitious part of me that worries that it's all going to be downhill from here. I know that's totally silly, but last year was just so wonderful I'm not sure anything could top it.

Another issue I've been struggling with is the old/young conflict that's been plaguing me. On the one hand, 24, in my mind, is in a different realm than 23. 23 is still youthful, could still be appropriate for college, is definitely "early 20s." 24, though, I mean, there's no question that 24 is an adult. To me, it sort of implies that there'll be no more excuses.  24 is time to get serious (but not so serious that Heelys are ruled out, I guess).

On the other hand, I've been very protective of my age at work. I don't like letting people know how old I am because I feel like my age will keep them from taking me seriously. For work, 24 is not very old at all, and I think a lot of people equate age with ability. The day after my birthday, the Big Boss was reminded that I'd had a birthday and she said, "Are you 20 yet?" I laughed it off, but she asked again, "How old are you?" so I told her. She said, "Oh, you're still a baby." That's insulting to me, especially in a work environment. I try very hard to do my job well and to be professional, and to me, how old someone is isn't important in an office. Part of me feels like she's a little bitter, because her son is my age, and he doesn't even have enough credits to get a two-year degree from college yet. Not that I'm passing any judgment on him; I really think it takes some people longer to figure out where they want to go than others, and that's OK, but I don't think I should be judged for my age, good or bad.

In truth, I do think I've achieved a lot for someone my age. I have a great job, a wonderful husband--I know what I want and I work hard to get it. I resolved the other night that I'm not going to keep my age a secret any more. I'm proud of myself and the life I've chosen and made and been blessed with, and I'm not afraid to claim it--my achievements or the time I've had to achieve them. I'm 24, and I can be whoever I want to be. You think that serious responsibility and youthful exuberance are mutually exclusive? Just watch.