Today is Rebecca R*’s birthday.  I’m not sure why I still remember that, as we haven’t been friends since about third grade, but hers was the first non-family birthday I consciously remembered, and it’s stuck with me. 

I’ve been thinking lately about things I remember and the length of time I’ve known my current friends.  I still feel young–having most of my friends be years older helps with that–but I’ve begun to realize that I actually remember things that happened more than ten years ago.  A lot of them, even, and some things that happened about fifteen years ago.  And, although I’ve only kept in touch with one of my friends from high school and one from junior high (neither of whom went to the same school as I did), I’ve stayed in touch with a couple of core groups of friends from college.  This means that one of my best friends now is someone I’ve known for six and a half years.  For those of you who grew up in one house in one town, that probably doesn’t seem like much.  I, however, have never lived in any one place (read: any one state) for more than seven years, and the friends I made in the beginning of second grade had drifted in different directions by the end of elementary school. 

The fact that I have friends whom I’ve known for years and who don’t all live within easy walking distance feels to me like more of a sign of adulthood even than paying for my own rent and living expenses.  I’m not entirely sure why. 

It’s possible, though, that I’d think of my apartment as a sign of adulthood if I did better at keeping up with housework.

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