Yesterday, I woke up and I was 24 years old.

The day before that, I was 19.

The day before that... I was 14.

And the day before that... I was... seven.

But today, I'm 24.

...How the hell did I get here?

Twenty four. That's almost a quarter of a century old. Now, to 60 year-olds, heck, even 30 years-olds, 24 is glorious music to their ears. We are at the pinnacle of our beauty and strength, and if you are childless and pet-less like myself, our freedom, too. But, statistically speaking, I can't get over the fact that my life is approximately one-third over. I say one-third because who really lives to 100 anyway? Moreover... who'd want to? 75 or 80 is more realistic (family history and general health pending). I'm not looking forward to turning 25 just because of the fractioned label that will be bestowed upon me. But it doesn't look like there's anything I can do about that…the Fountain of Youth wouldn't like it.

When I was seven, I was the most hip girl in school with my Winnie The Pooh denim overalls and glittery pink tennis shoes. I was walking home from Peter's Colony Elementary with my ‘bubba’ and stopping to catch tadpoles in the creek. When I was seven, I was racing home after school to claim the T.V. and watch Arthur at 3:30 sharp on PBS, because Nickelodeon and Cable was a "luxury, not a necessity," said my mom. When I was seven, I was kicking over ant piles (okay...I still do that) and riding my bicycle to McDonalds to buy a McFlurry using quarters from my dad's coin mug. When I was seven, I was holding out hopelessly for the Easter Bunny and positively peeing my pants at the words: "SANTA CLAUS". When I was seven, I was either annoying my brother, or my brother was teasing me- and I'll let you decide who 'started' it. Of course, our parents finished it with that glorified, wooden paddleball paddle, which had the ball pulled off for maximum paddling efficiency.

When I was 14, I was a tall, blonde, gangly freshman in high school with size 8 shoes, and dare I say, an A-cup training bra. I was caught and confused between the way I saw the teenagers around me acting and the way my parents and my conscience were telling me to go. When I was 14, I was in my high school weight room where the dingy aroma of iron and sweat floated through the air. Coach Osborne said I needed "bulk up" in preparation for basketball season. By the time I was a sophomore I actually had some meat on my bones, all thanks to that rust dungeon. When I was 14, I still had no idea how sex worked and certainly had never kissed anyone besides my mom and my blind cat. I remember I bought my first mini-skirt from Walmart and tried to rock it, but somehow, I don't think I wore it like the popular girls.

When I was 19, I was a lowly freshman in a sea of 50,000 burnt orange students at the University of Texas. It was the first time I had lived in an urban city and I had only the lessons my parents taught me and my AT&T flip phone to be my guides. It was with that same flip phone that I navigated the great city of Austin and my college campus. Scratch that… I didn’t even have an iPhone or data plan until I was a sophomore, so behold, paper maps it was. When I was 19, I was riding the CapMetro bus headed northbound at 10:59 PM to run an absurd errand when suddenly, the time flashed 11:00 PM and the rail service ended. I was asked to exit the bus and was left sitting in the dark at a bus stop 20 miles north of my dorm. When I was 19, I was shocked and standing in the middle of a frat party visualizing the punch and glow sticks characteristic of Greek life I had only seen on MTV before. When I was 19, I was eating far more than my share of powdered donuts from the mini-mart downstairs and accidentally leaving my wet clothes in the washing machine down the hall for far too long. When I was 19, I was walking down Speedway Avenue before my Calculus final calling my older brother for college test-taking tips. When I was 19, I was also staring at that graded Calculus final that mocked me with a bright red 39 and a tantalizing circle around it.

But today, I'm 24. I have successfully obtained a bachelor's degree and work a full time job that contributes to a 401K. I pay car insurance and just submitted yet another April tax-return. I have BOOBS *girl cups chest* and I get mother nature’s present every month. Just last night I counted the number of hours of sleep I'd save if I chose not to blow-dry my hair before bed. At 24, I worry about my parents getting older and get left out of family excursions if I can’t take off work. At 24, I ask sixth-grade hooligans to stop running in the hallways. At 24, I appropriately kick over ant piles and positively pee at the words: “THREE DAY WEEKEND”.

So... How the hell did I get here?

My life has taken me on many wild adventures in 24 short, long (or long, short) years. Perhaps many of you reading this have felt similarly at times. However, I have come to find that it is sorely human nature to often focus on the bad rather than the good. To combat that, I must absolutely express that I am one blessed human being. The fact that I have even had the opportunities to have these adventures speaks to that. I sit here typing this account in good health, with a job that pays my needs and even some wants, and a family that calls me their own. I am 24 and I have the strength, power, and freedom to conquer the stereotype that getting older sucks.

Because it doesn’t.