A Year and a Day

Bryant Park, one year ago

On Monday I turned 23 - Taylor Swift to Blink 182 style, though luckily it seems that my approval rating hasn't dropped yet. Monday was also my one year anniversary of being in New York. Instead of being dropped off at the train by two teary-eyed parents (to be fair, I wasn't exactly dry-eyed either) and then arriving to spend the next two weeks on the living room couch of some very gracious family friends, I spent my day at work and then drinking and dining (and drinking some more) with some of my closest friends in the city. I spent Saturday night surrounded by even more friends, celebrating the year past and the year to come.

Yesterday marked the one year anniversary of my job. It's hard to believe that in the past year or so I've graduated college, moved to New York City and started a job in the field I spent my four years of college preparing for. And now here I am, a year and a day in. A lot has changed in the past year but so much has stayed the same - the walls in my walk-in closet of a room have stayed bare but the number of shoes crammed in here with me has grown...significantly.

I think I've changed in the past year - having a job and paying rent will do that, as will late nights spent with friends in darkened bars and Sunday mornings spent in bed ordering from Seamless because moving is just too difficult. Every year on my birthday someone inevitably asks me if I feel different. And I didn't feel any different on Monday than I did on Sunday. But thinking back on the past year, I feel older than the person I was a year and a day ago when I walked into Conde Nast for my first day of my big-girl job. I'm older than the person I was sitting on the Amtrak train bound for New York from D.C., crying a little and silently reading the letter my mom slipped me before she and my dad kissed me goodbye. I'm older because of the experiences I've had and the people I've met - the early mornings and late nights and too much coffee or too much vodka and first dates and no, wait nevermind, maybe no second date after all.

 Fewer people ask if I'm a teenager now (though I was told, on Monday when heading down to the 21+ restaurant at which my friends and I ate that night, that I looked 18) and whether that's because my face shows age or my attitude does, I'm not sure - but it feels good to grow up.

I'm optimistic about 23. Even though I'm still not sure about how to navigate adult relationships and the walls of my teeny room are still bare and I'm still not exactly sure how to avoid those Sunday morning hangovers, I know there's a lot of good left to come.