For those of you who don't know, I turned 25 exactly one week ago. I'm not entirely sure why, but for the first time I started freaking out about a birthday. Everybody talks -- and John Mayer sings -- about quarter life crises. But here's the thing: the average American lives somewhere around 75 years. Do the math. I'm practically dead. I started high school a decade ago. I became aware of my impending mortality in a rental car somewhere in rural Iowa.
As snow-covered corn fields passed by, I thought, "Nobody tells you that the real world is one series of scissor kicks to the crotch -- insurance, car repairs, 401k's, etc. -- and it's not going away anytime soon." This thinking partially stemmed from the fact that we'd paid more than $1400 to fix the Civic the previous week.
So, as the birthday day crept nearer, I did what every overly dramatic 24 year old teetering on the brink of geezerdom does: I grew a beard. Well, as close as I can come to one. For some reason, I've been blessed(?) with the inability to grow consistent facial hair. I can out neckbeard the best of 'em, but when it comes to facial hair, nobody is going to be mistaking me for the Brawny Guy. So after five days, I reluctantly shaved off my stubble. This morning on BART I was flipping through the Gay Talese reader and found a little nugget of information he shared, that spoke to me in some ways.
He said:
The one essential quality is curiousity in my opinion, and the energy to get out and learn about the world and about people who live unique lives, who dwell in obscure places. There are stories everywhere within view, within range and the only advice I might offer: 'never write anything for money.' It is perhaps strange advice in this age of bottom-line rationalizing, greed and gluttony, but it is the advice that has guided me through these 40 years since back in 1957 when I turned 25.
Who knows, maybe 25 is when you really start living.
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