It’s Friday night. I’ve just finished a healthy meal of pasta and green beans, read of bit of Gulliver’s Travels, and am now sitting down to do a bit of writing. I have a single glass of whiskey (Aberlour single malt) to keep me company, and a bit of light music in the background. I feel neither old nor young. Welcome to the world of 26.

This age started out a little over a month ago with thoughts I have already described. There are a number of events that have occurred since that warrant close inspection, though. I recount them here for your amusement.

In American culture there are a number of ’significant’ ages. Every year from 5-10 is significant. I can remember (a little vaguely now) long hours of contemplation over whether I preferred to be an even or an odd age. I settled on even. 10, of course, is particularly significant, because it’s when we move into the double digits. We’ll have to wait another ninety years for something like that to happen again. 10 was also special for me because it snowed that Christmas. The only other time it snowed on my birthday was when I was born. Using my budding scientific reasoning, I hypothesised that it will only snow on my birthday every ten years. I have yet to be proved wrong.

13 is significant for some because it introduces teenage life. I seem to have missed the joy (or agony, depending on point of view) that lovely age entails, as I was enjoying my first year at Mid-Pac and didn’t even notice my age - probably because it was an odd year. 16 is great because I could drive.

18 is of course the first major milestone. I registered to vote, and at the same time submitted my name for the selective service. I was legally an adult, but had no idea what that meant. Trundling off to St. Olaf, I was still more or less blissfully unaware of my capabilities, my motivations, or much else in life.

21 is, to Americans, synonymous with drinking. This isn’t the case for the Brits, where they gain the privilege at 18. I’m not sure how different the College experience is for Americans who go to a major university, though. My only experiences was of Olaf, a (mostly) dry campus, and I can only compare that to Oxford, which most definitely is not.

Things then go quite for a few years, until a little voice pops up one day and says, ‘Ahem. You’re 26 now. You sure that’s a good idea?’ Where did this voice come from? Why now? Permit me a few examples. A few weeks ago I sprained my ankle. I proceed to be extra vigilant in taking care of it. I had all three doctors I live with examine it (plus a few visiting friends). I kept it iced and raised. I didn’t push it. I took, what some might say, was the ‘responsible approach.’ Before I decided to return to play, I went to the doctor, recounting to him my concern at how conscious of protecting my body I had become. He laughed. I think it must only get worse. I recounted the same story to my physio. She laughed. This concerns me. Is what I am experiencing the beginning of a long road to a more sombre reality? Perhaps some of my readers are in a position to comment…

Another shock came just today. I need to renew my various discount cards I get for being a student. Unfortunately, I believed, I couldn’t renew them because they all seem to have a cut off age of 26. When I was inquiring at the train station about my Young Person’s Railcard, I discovered that I was still eligible, but I was now in a new class. Ladies and gentlemen, I am now, officially, a ‘mature student‘. What does that mean?!

Where are the days of crew dates, late night kebabs, and drunken matriculation photos? ‘Mature student’. Humph. I can still get it down with the best of them.

Of course, as I say this, I’m looking at the clock thinking I should really wrap this entry up, as it’ll be ten o’clock in a few minutes and I really should be in bed.