Today I realized something that hurt my overly fragile feelings: I do not have any friends my own age.
Ok, well, I have like four, and I’m married to one of them.
I do not claim the maturity of my older friends. I have not experienced their joys and I have not seen their tragedies. I am the one they smile at knowingly. And I admire and request and need and delight in the wisdom of my older friends.
At work, I am in the unique position where I am surrounded by mentalities that are on average at least ten years older or ten years younger. And so it startles me when I stumble upon a mind that ticks like mine.
We are the twenty-somethings, the ellipsis of the economy, an intentional omission. We are forgotten. We have forgotten ourselves. We are not teenagers, and we are not the adults our parents were at our age. We take roadtrips, roll the windows down, and choke on the fresh air. We crave roads different from those we learned to drive on. To find someone sensitive who will give you a slice of their time, to find someone who will look you in the eyes, that is a blessing.