Fighting urban impatience while waiting to order a coffee, I realize that I am surrounded. A chipper group of young women (with impeccably sculpted posteriors shrouded in matching Lululemon) hatch a game plan of splitting entrees and quartering a cookie in the stated interests of fiscal preservation and caloric conservation. Exercising a right to bare arms, three dudes toting lacrosse sticks march in, bypass the queue, and make a beeline to the drink machine to quench their previously parched protein powders. Hydrate, bro!

First-semester sniffles and coughs accentuate the ambiance and as it’s my turn to order, the watery-eyed cashier abruptly prances off to nurse his swollen nose and to hitch up to a sleigh. In the attendant’s absence, an elderly man at a nearby table flashes me a half-smile as he notices that I peeped him pouring brown liquor into his soda. As he gradually drifts back to sleep, his highlighter and marble notebook charade seem to keep management at a safe distance.

If the University of Delaware Panera is any indication, college life looks as familiar as it did a decade ago. My life, on the other hand, certainly looks a bit different.

I am 33-years-old, single, and just moved back in with my parents to my childhood home in the bustling metropolis of Hockessin. And despite a cat allergy, I am just one feline shy of “cat-person” status. Not exactly the roommate situation I imagined. Baseball pennants on the wall and a model airplane spinning slowly overhead, I sat in my childhood bedroom the first night and thought, “Holy shit! If my 23-year-old self could see me now.”

He’d probably laugh. And cry. And feed me a Zyrtec.

In the past decade, I’ve lost a few family and friends and found a few pounds and blemishes. Spent years in school after undergrad and coughed up tens of thousands on tuition, only to finally accept that medical school might not be for me. I’ve perfected traveling on a budget and reconnected with folks I hadn’t seen since high school. I rehabbed an abused dog to a relaxed life of car rides and table scraps, but lost him to cancer at the height of his journey. I fell into a career that I love, and started a business. I’ve become pretty good at slinging drinks behind the bar and decent at sticking landings in a small Cessna. I’ve confirmed many times over that romantic relationships are difficult. And the multi-day “adult” hangover has perhaps convinced me that both Woodford Reserve and Dogfish Head should be consumed in extreme moderation and rarely in conjunction.  

To calm the anxieties of my 23-year-old self, it turns out that “different” doesn’t necessarily equate to better or worse. A deviation from the expected can be challenging, rewarding, heartbreaking, and thrilling, often all wrapped up in one big life burrito. No action is ever static, no matter how seemingly insignificant. Entertain uncertainties and insecurities regularly but briefly. Eat an occasional salad and go for a jog, even when you don’t feel like it. Focus on experiences over possessions and value those around you. Realize you don’t know it all. You never will.

And when mom and dad are cooking, don’t be late for dinner.