I’m no longer in my early twenties. I’m not even in my mid-twenties. I’ve decided to describe my age as early-late-twenties. In less than three years, I’ll be 30, an age that stands like a welcome sign to the town of Adulthood. We keep pushing back that sign. Our grandparents were expected to be married and with careers by the time they were 21, Victorians sent children to work in the factory, and Romeo and Juliet got hitched at 13.

But in the last thirty years, social and economic factors have pushed all the markers of maturity–marriage, home ownership, career, and financial independence–back indefinitely. Many people balked at Lena Dunham’s character in Girls begging her parents for money, but it was only a slight exaggeration of how many middleclass millennials live their lives. (I think the show’s critics were more upset about the reality than Dunham’s character, a classic example of shooting the messenger.)

Despite my full beard (which alone would have signaled by adulthood in Ancient Greece), until recently I saw myself as a dorky, 21-year-old university student. I mean, I don’t do my own taxes. I can’t drive a car. But this year changed everything, and when I think back over the last 12 months, I realize I’m closer to being a grown up than I had thought.

Home  

Last February, I finally left the nest and moved into my first Toronto apartment. It only happened because a friend of mine wanted to move and invited me to live with her. Goodness knows how long it would have been if she hadn’t pushed me. We moved into a second floor apartment in an old house near the Junction. The place looked incredibly sketchy when we first saw it. The paint job was bizarre–one bedroom had two walls white, two walls purple, and the bathroom was painted blood red. Why would you paint an apartment blood red unless you were going to commit murders there? But repainting the walls, and cleaning everything (while drinking and listening to Madonna on iTunes) provided the bonding time we needed to make the place feel like our own.

It wasn’t until my first night, during which my housemate brought home a date, that it hit me that I was now living in a twenty-something apartment. The next morning, I made fun of her about her overnight guest, and joked that I’d have to catch up. She grabbed a piece of paper, cut out a heart, wrote both our names on it, and drew a one under hers. The tally remains on our fridge.

I’m now winning.

Career

Last January, I visited New York City to interview drag queens for an article I was working on for WORN Fashion Journal. The biggest celebrity I contacted was Lady Bunny. She was in an off Broadway show, and she agreed to pose for some photographs afterwards. My stomach was in knots because I was so nervous that she would not come out, or that she would refuse to answer questions. Like a pro, she changed into a black sequined mini skirt, but kept her giant bouffant of a wig, and lounged around a divan for us.

When I started reporting, I was very uncomfortable doing interviews. I hated the idea that I was bothering people, and couldn’t shake the feeling that I was indebted to my subjects for doing me a massive favour. But I received some really important advice from my feature-writing instructor at Ryerson–most people like to be interviewed because they like to feel important.

I felt more confident after each interview I conducted to the point where I felt nothing about cold contacting people and whipping out my voice recorder. Interviewing, I learned that interviewing was simply talking and listening, and I’m good at that. It happened just in time for me to be cool while interviewing designers I had previously just seen on TV during Toronto Fashion Week.

Financial Independence

Before Fashion Week, I went on a bit of a shopping spree (like you do), and while it helped me feel stylish and confident, it caused my financial messiness to hit home. Everybody has different talents. I’m good at impressions, and, at the drop of a hat, knowing which Sex and the City analogy to apply to any man problem. But keeping track of my purchases is not something I’m good at.

So I asked for help from a friend who is very good with money. I gave her all my information, and she created a budget for me (ala Till Debt Do Us Part), that laid out how much I’m supposed to spend each week, and how much I can afford to put away. To be honest, I don’t always follow it, and Christmas kind of threw a wrench in things, but there’s no better time than New Years to recommit to a responsible plan.

Marriage  

No, I didn’t get married. But I did date a wonderful, enthusiastic writer last spring. Despite moving back to Germany, we stayed in touch, and he sends me bizarre links vaguely about fashion that often end up in my Toronto Standard posts.

I used to want a boyfriend so badly. The possibility of premature spinsterhood caused me deep anxiety. But then, without a watershed moment or conscious change, I stopped caring as much. I drew away from dating, and instead invested the time and energy into my friends, my family and my career. (And I started to say things like “my career”.) I still don’t believe those people who claim that “you’ll meet someone as soon as you stop looking”. But I do think you need to invest in yourself first. When you do meet someone special, might as well be the best person you can be for them to love.

The German guy thinks it’s brave how my friends and I live our lives. He is continually impressed that my housemate creates one-of-a-kind outfits of vintage dresses, vests, home-made jumpers, artificial flowers, and hats. Without the financial commitments of partners or children, he thinks it’s marvelous that we go out dancing, that we clutter our apartments with eccentric knickknacks, that we’re not afraid of coming off as frivolous or weird. He says he admires our “whimsy.”

That’s the fantastic thing about being 27 in the city. You’re getting your shit together and coming into your own, but you can still drunkenly discard your jeans on the bathroom floor. You’re building up a career and sorting out your finances, but you’ve still got some ill-considered one night stands in front of you. When I’m old and grey, I may look back at this time in my life and remember it as the best I ever had. Just because a flower has yet to fully bloom doesn’t mean it’s not beautiful to behold.