On Movement of Time.

She tells me this is how I should be applying night cream.
I'm not taking note. 

Every one has that Year.

The one where you don't necessarily feel invincible anymore.

The one when the girls at the Nordstrom counters seem impossibly spry.  and annoying.

The one where the music at Intelligentsia just feels a bit too loud and the lighting at all of the hip little corner restaurants feels too low.  HOW DO I SEE OR HEAR ANYTHING?!

The one when no one asks for your ID anymore.  (except at the movies?!  what?!)

The one where you learn what an IRA is and why your parents were always talking about 401ks.

The one when your friends are all talking about eye serum and varicose vein prevention.

The one when you realize that all eligible men in your age division are A: already attached to Mrs. Right, or B: already attached to Mrs. Wrong. (read: you're gonna have to wait for the divorce/breakup/widowing)

The one where intended "All Night Ragers" end up like this:

.... and there is no rallying.  Once this happens, you must be taken home and put to bed.  Even if it's 11pm.  You don't remember putting your jammies on.  Because you were in REM sleep the entire time.

The one where you kind of don't seek out new music anymore.  You already have so much you know you like, and not enough time to listen to it all.  Gasp.

The one where you don't find grammar mistakes cute, and write people off for in-eloquence in correspondence.  Likewise, you find well spoken-ness irresistible.

The one where you start wondering who will be taking care of you in your old age..... even if you decide just to not live to an age that requires taking care of.

The one where you start listening to NPR in the car.  Groan.

The one where you finally relent and admit.... you probably can't pull off that pouffy skirt or gingham dress anymore.  But you keep the tutu and cowboy boots.

Oh hey, 26.  You're an asshole.