An AGE old debate...

Since when was a gal in her mid-twenties considered an old maid? Washed-up, used goods, retired from the dating pool. Let the 18-year-olds in teetering on sky-high stilettos, sporting crotch-bearing minis have the fun. Once a lady has reached the quarter century mark, apparently it is time to invest in cat-resistant couches, as these are the only companions one is likely to entertain...

Such are the sentiments I was bombarded with as I settled in for some vino bianco at last night's ladies gathering. Apparently, my friend's are feeling old. My gorgeous, successful, talented, strong-willed seemingly independent gal pals feel OLD. Mystified, I settle in to listen to the barrage of reasons as to why this feeling is so strong, so soon. Jill*, a 28-year-old buyer for a fashion house, claims she has found the love of her life, lost him, and now simply senses impending hopelessness. Which is why she is entertaining the thought of getting serious with a 39 year-old-man with whom she has experienced brief, somewhat passionate dalliances in the past.

"But do you like him?" is the foremost question on my mind.

"Well, he's successful... mature. Has a steady career."

"Do you like him?"

"He's been discussing having children."

"Um, isn't that skipping over a few steps? Say, for instance, dating? Falling in lust/like/love? Sharing life experiences other than late night chats about child-bearing possibilities?"

Call me confused, but for some odd reason it was my belief that we as women, as a culture really, have moved beyond the "50's House Wife" syndrome. I heard somewhere once about a little thing called feminism. Women's Liberation, burning of the bras, and other such hoo-ha. The freedom to take a successful career, a fabulous lifestyle, kick-ass friends and killer opportunities, and simply marinate in the bliss such achievements offer. Since when was it decided that only those with with a numeral "1" at the front of their age get to enjoy such pleasure? (And yes, your Great Aunt Ruth at 101 qualifies... because by this point one simply cannot afford to care!)

I am 20... something... and fabulous. I do acknowledge that there are moments when I desire a cohort in all of life's endeavors. When I wish for the marital bliss that my sister has attained, the cozy comfort of connubial care my parents reside in, the hazy-eyed gaze of an elderly couple as the hold hands near the Hudson and soak up the simple view. (Granted, that gaze could be hazy do to the fact that the image in sight is smog-embraced New Jersey.) However, one must then note that my sister now has to confer with hubby pre-furniture purchases. My parents are constantly juggling four dogs, four children, and many a daily abode-related catastrophe. And that old couple probably just met on those park benches, simply not remembering why their fingers are intertwined. These are moments which, for the time time being, I can live without. My day is my own, and if I choose to spend four hours at Starbucks downing mochas and writing a ridiculous blog which no one will probably read, I can find comfort in the fact that permission for such acts was required by not a single soul.

So to all you helpless feeling old bitties out there on the verge of purchasing a kitty-crate, put down the Am-Ex. Stop hunting the early bird special joints for a man who will "suffice". We are young, we are dead sexy, and damn it, you might just have to hear me roar.

(I would rush off to burn my bra in an act of defiance. But as single and fabulous as I may be, the puppies still need support.)