Is a City Really a City if it Doesn’t Smell Like Pee?
There are some key words associated with this particular Sarah Khan.
They usually include (but are not necessarily limited to): sleep, giggle, useless, platter, beef, rrarr, curly, and neener. And now that I’ve upped and moved to New York, let’s be sure to add “Boston” to the list.
Though I’ve lived in numerous random locales during my two-and-a-half decades of existence — some (India) more picturesque than others (Syracuse) — Boston has always retained a special place in my heart as home, more than any other city that’s been ephemerally blessed with that distinction.
Boston is where my family now lives. It’s where I went to college. It’s where I resided for nearly a year after grad school with Karishma, roommate extraordinaire, and a ghost. It’s where I discovered the sartorial necessity of sporting a Caramel Frappuccino (tall, no whip, extra-extra caramel) as a summer accessory. It’s the home of Natalie’s, the greasiest (and thus yummiest) late-night pizza around. It’s where I met a friend for breakfast and walked all the way through the Prudential and down Boylston Street in broad daylight — before I strolled into work and someone pointed out the giant glob of hair gel in my curls that my friend had neglected to alert me to.
Hm. You didn’t really need to know about that though, did you.
That’s a lot of candles.
I celebrated my 23rd birthday a few weeks ago. My friends were great, showering me with affection and attention and presents galore. But for some reason they all kept echoing the same reproachful sentiment:
“What’s wrong with you, you retard? We all know you’re 25.”
Damn. Can’t pull anything past those wily bastards.
There’s an undeniable stigma associated with turning 25. Twenty-seven even sounds young by comparison. Twenty feels like it was light-years away. And now that you’ve amassed a quarter-century under your belt, you long for the positively juvenile days of yore: 24.