I might go out and buy a convertible VW bug today.
Or listen to Miley Cyrus and Taylor Swift on repeat and sing loudly at the top of my lungs.
Or buy a Seventeen magazine. Or even a Cosmopolitan.
Or see if my girlfriends want to come over for a slumber party and eat raw cookie dough straight from the bowl.
Or purchase a really trendy ensemble from Charlotte Russe or Forever 21.
Because today it was made blatantly obvious that I am, in fact, no longer 21. Or even close to it.
After doing some spring cleaning today from our closet, I came up with 12-15 items to take to Plato's Closet to resell. There were several dresses and tops, many which I've worn in the past five years at some point, however I hadn't worn them this past year at all so I decided it was time to part with them.
The 14-year-old girl (exaggeration) went through my basket with her discerning eye and then returned all but two items.
Her explanation: "Well, we could only accept these two items. You have really nice clothes, but your taste is just too OLD for this store..."
I half-smiled, half-scowled at her, snatched up my almost 2-year-old, accepted the measely $7 she offered and took my basket of OLD clothes to my car where I proceeded to crumple into a big old pile of 27-year-old depression. Well, it wasn't quite that bad. But almost.