Most of the time, I'm in denial about my age. The denial isn't intentional, nor is it the product of real delusion. Mostly, it's just that I don't perceive myself as middle-aged. If fact, I'm always caught off guard when someone mentions that I'm no longer in my early 30s.
Because I think I am.
It's been a quarter of a century this month that I left the home of my parents. (That's 25 years to you and me, Russ.) Nearly three decades have passed since I packed up the U-Haul and headed a couple hours down routes 39 and 60 to college.
Swear to god, it seems like just last month.
It's been twenty-five years since I hugged my Dad goodbye, and saw him cry for the first (and only) time in my life.
A quarter of a century has passed since I said "I do" out loud to my high school girlfriend, even while on the inside I was screaming: "I don't!"
It's been twenty-five years since the last day I can recall not having at least one real worry in my life, and since I last rolled up a comic book, stuck it in the back pocket of my jeans and shimmied up a tree to read it in complete, peaceful privacy.
Twenty-five years of evolution has caused the question: "What are you going to do with your life?" to now become, "What do you do for a living?"
And it's taken nearly twenty-five years for the answer to: "Where are you from?" to change.
25 freakin' years. Un-be-lievable.
They've come and gone in a flash.