There’s a song by Macklemore that fits with the story I’m about to tell. It’s called Cowboy Boots and there’s a lick that embodies what is going on in my husband’s life and mine right now.

I was laying on the couch last night, probably around 8 p.m. – ya know, real late for us old married folk. Matt leaned over to snuggle in and watch a few episodes of Parenthood, when he made the astonishing discovery I was still wearing a bra this late in the day.

“Mark it down people!”

I would’ve rolled off the coach had I not been in the nook of the coach where the sectional meets, that sweet spot, those who have a sectional know what I’m talking about.

There’s plenty of truth though to his discovery, as embarrassing as it may be, Ha. It’s called wearing mom jeans when you have kids and get comfortable, maybe a little too comfortable around your husband, and public appearance standards drop. But, what is it called when you’re a twenty-something student with two dogs and a husband?

I still haven’t found a real job, meaning a grownup one. I waitress on the weekends, go to college during the week and intern wherever I can, gotta make those connections. So, it’s not like I have this grownup schedule, going to work 9-5, ew, being required to dress like an adult at all times.

You have to relish these times, right? One day I will have spit up on all my clothes, a grownup job, maybe not too grown and a set schedule. These times are the days our parents tell you to enjoy. No kids, no real responsibilities, less pressure, though I beg to differ sometimes.

That lick I was talking about before is bolded and the whole verse goes like this:

Hold on to what you were, forget what you’re not

The streets were ours that summer, at least those two blocks

Reminisce on those days, I guess that’s OK, you wonder why

Some grow up, move on, close the chapter, live separate lives

The twenty-something confusion before the suit and tie

Strangers become mistakes but those mistakes made you feel alive

Hindsight is vibrant, reality: rarely lit

Memory’s a collage pasted to the glue that barely sticks

Good Lord, they broke all my shields

Locked bathroom doors, graffiti, and high heels

Until you felt that altitude you don’t know how high feels

Party mountain, some don’t ever come down from around here

To be young again, I guess it’s relative

The camel lights, the whiskey rye, sink into the skin

I fantasize about a second win

Grow a moustache, pick up another bad habit and let the games begin

Are you catching my drift? I’m in a weird limbo with life, bras included. I’m in the split where anything can happen. I’m going to enjoy not having to be dressed at 8 pm. and if I’m lucky I’ll land something that won’t require be to be either, haha.

It’s the Twenty Something Confusion before the Suit and Tie

What would you call it?