I’ve been feeling old lately. Not old like I'm on death’s door, but old like I’m supposed to be aware of the consequences of my actions instead of flirting with random men at bars and accidentally lighting my hair on fire in a drunken attempt to have a cigarette. (NOT THAT THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED.)

There’s the whole 25 thing. There’s the whole trying to get on a real career path thing. There’s the whole being in a Serious Relationship thing.

And then there’s the male best friend from high school getting married in a few weeks thing. I try to rationalize my total and complete abject fear at the prospect of attending his wedding but all I can come up with is seriously? You’re old enough to have a wedding I must attend? Is everyone else there going to be all mature? Am I supposed to be all mature?

So, in a bit of a state, I began watching St. Elmo’s Fire last night. I thought their relatable twenty-something life crises would soothe me, plus I have a generalized crush on all the boy characters except for Emilio Estevez.

Instead I wound up feeling kind of bad about myself, mostly due to Demi Moore’s breakdown wherein she sobs “I just really thought I’d be somebody by the age of twenty-three. You know? I just really thought I’d be somebody.” Sitting there in my pajamas it occurred to me that at twenty-five, not only was I not somebody, I was two years behind the self-imposed timeline of an almost literal crack-whore. I couldn’t handle the truth so I called Re-Boyfriend and asked him to get a bottle of wine on the way home.