As far as birthdays go, 27 is a fairly unremarkable one. It’s in this awkward place between 25 and 30, where it doesn’t really mean anything at all.
But for me, the number has always held this weird, obscure significance. I’ve always felt like 27 was the age that I would officially feel like an adult. That I’d have my life together, understand how to do my own taxes, and be off of my mom’s phone plan. I remember being 22, and sitting on the creepy red leather couch in my college house mapping out what I thought my life would look like by the time I hit this non-milestone.
“I’m going to be an editor by the age of 25, be engaged by 27, married by 28, and a mom by 30,” I said cockily to my roommates, 100% positive that my life would work out exactly the way I wanted it to.
But obviously, given a few bumps in the road (some of which were amazing, others that were straight-up heartbreaking) literally none of that has happened yet.
My mom is constantly correcting me when I refer to other...