By Janelle Erlichman Washington
Post Staff Writer
Thursday, September 20, 2001; Page C08
Suddenly, I wish I were older. Much, much older. That this was happening at the end of my life -- instead of the prime of my life. That at 25 I wasn't faced with the realization that this is going to overshadow everything: falling in love, a promotion, getting engaged, getting married.
I hope I will smile again and laugh again, the way I used to. That I'll be able to groan about the cost of bridesmaid dresses and how annoying guys are. But right now I feel 25 years of safety slipping away. When I have children will I have to teach them about hate and being afraid of planes flying into buildings? When I tell them about my childhood will it be nothing like theirs?
At 25, life was filled with simplicities. Sleeping in, drinking coffee, paying bills late, hangovers. But now I find myself too young to wrap my mind around the concept of war and too old to see Sept. 11 quickly fade while I dress my Barbie dolls.
Twenty-somethings never thought they'd see the day when e-mails had subject lines that read: "Please let me know you're OK?" But now e-mails are how we express our shock and sorrow, our outrage.
That at 25 we would want Mom and Dad to wrap their arms around us, stroke our hair and soothe us and make us believe that everything is okay.
At 25 we want to do something. We want to drive to New York and help dig. We want to do more than roll up our sleeve and give blood. We want to understand. We feel helpless but not hopeless.
At 25 we're being called to service. "Marcus just came back from National Guard for the past couple of days. He is really somber and it seems he will be sent away given military action," e-mails Karen. Who thought at 25 we would look at our co-workers and think, Are these the people I might spend my last moments alive with? Would they hold my hand and jump? Would they comfort me?
At 25 who would I call to say goodbye to?
At 25, for once, I wish I was 85.