And I'm not even 30

That's it!

I've finally arrived.

I'm old.

I have just crossed that threshold from being carefree in my 20s to having an old soul. And it happened this very evening. I know it happened because I was listening to my new, 25-year-old roommate explain how she wants to rearrange the living room to accommodate her furniture ... and her suggestions irked me.

They weren't inherently bad suggestions -- they were just suggestions that I didn't agree with. (I hate having the television as the focal point for a living room, especially if it's housed in an ugly ass entertainment center left by my old roommate. There's a reason the entertainment center currently serves as the liquor cabinet!) Then I noticed her coffee table and end table and how they were polar opposites to my taste in home decor. And I saw that she didn't own a normal sized sofa -- just a love seat and a "chair and a half." And I wanted my own, more tasteful painting on the large wall instead of a hodge-podge of picture frames. And, most of all, I didn't want to compromise.

Suddenly, it hit me. I wanted my own furniture, in my own house, arranged my way. I don't want to come home and roll my eyes at the coffee table every day. Don't get me wrong -- both of my roommates are wonderful girls and their stuff is not at all ugly or distasteful ... it's just not my style. And even though, in the end, I will compromise on the decor decisions, I'm tired of dealing with other people's style.

I don't know when I started to care so much about what my home looked like but I care now. What a burden! Life was much simpler when I could live in a rundown, not-up-to-code, cheaper-than-dirt apartment with no A/C, no washer/dryer, up three flights of stairs. Alas, those days are gone.

Farewell, youth. Looks like I'll be saddled with a coterie of cats, dentures, Metamucil overdoses, rheumatism, and the gout by the end of the year.