Already Twenty-Three

I thought this was the sort of thing reserved for the over-40. Yesterday, over a bowl of Special K, that I thought came free with my $200/night room at the Hilton, I found myself forgetting my own age. Twenty-two, right? 

Nope. Twenty-three.

I'm not complaining that I'm old. I'm pretty, I have a great ass--oh, yes, I said it. I've heard that since I was 15, might as well own it, right? Really, life is good. But is it good enough?

So, I'm twenty-three, apparently, but I have to clue what I want to do with the 3/4 of my life that I have left. Nine years ago, I was in high school. How did I grow up so fast? I don't feel twenty-three, and I certainly don't look it. I just have nothing to show for it. I'm in grad school--which is likely a huge waste of time and money--my job is up in the air. I look back to those high school days, and I have no idea what I thought I wanted to do back then. I can't remember what I was thinking when I picked my college majors--PR and Theatre. I don't know what I'm really good at, I can't piece together clues from years past that indicate, "A-ha! That's what I outta be doing!" I feel like I'm letting my childhood self down, the girl with big dreams, singing to her reflection in the armoir mirror. She couldn't wait to grow up and win Academy Awards, become a pop star. What I lacked in talent, I thought, I would make up for with ambition. 

Maybe I'm hormonal, maybe it's the fact that I just got back from three amazing weeks in a foreign country where life was so much simpler. I'm back in the rat race and I wish I could throw in my running shoes and say--enough. Why does it matter so much anyway?