This morning marked my first trip on Denver’s new light rail system. I have been bitching about my new commute since the day I found out about it, nearly three months ago. The same commute that promised to take my cushy 50 minute bus ride and turn it into a, bus-to-train-to-bus hour and a half long journey, complete with unfamiliar faces and ventures through the underbelly of the city.

I boarded the first of my connections bright and early this morning, well maybe not so much with the bright, more like dark and early. I stumbled, half awake down the too skinny bus aisle scanning to find an empty seat. What are all these people doing awake so early? Why is it hard for me to find a place to sit at 5:55am? I am not used to this. I finally snuggled in next to a plump old man, his stomach spilling over into my seat, and pulled out my copy of Cat’s Cradle, intent on getting lost in the world of Vonnegut’s imagination. I was only able to tuck into it for a few minutes, one on a long list of my many problems with this new commute. I hardly had time to open to the right chapter let alone make it through one, when we arrived at Union Station. I wiggled my way down the aisle and off the bus, my oversized purse leading the way and knocking elbows like the drinks cart on a 747.

Here I was, in downtown Denver, disoriented and cold, trying to find my way to the light rail area of the station. I had assumed, incorrectly, that a large number of passengers on the bus would be making the same trek as me, allowing me to simply follow someone who knew where they were going. Instead, I found myself walking alone down a dark, deserted underground hallway, unconsiously reaching for my mace just in case. I headed for the light at the end of the tunnel (ha!) and emerged into the city where the rising sun bounced off of glass skyscrapers, alternately blinding then illuminating. From where I stood the city looked peaceful but vibrant. There is so much life inside the city confines. I felt at home all of a sudden, thrust back into London circa 1997. I had never before been to Denver (save for my birthday weekend, but that doesn’t count) yet it all felt so similar. I made my way to the tracks with a new found sense of calm. The grip around my mace loosened and my head stopped realing as I took a long deep breath of the city into my lungs. It felt good.

As I sat on the light rail and stared out the window, I watched as the magnificant architecture zoomed past me. I was overcome with a need to be a part of a city once again. My feet miss the hard cold pavement, my nose longs for the perfume of roasting peanuts and exhuast fume, my soul aches to feel a connection with a passing stranger just because of a shared zip code. Perhaps this new commute of mine won’t be so bad after all. Perhaps it will allow me to feel, if only for a few minutes each day, that I do share that bond with strangers.

My birthday was Sunday (I had planned to write this on Sunday, but ya’ll know how that goes). I turned the big two-five. I am not okay with this.

You could call it a quarter life crisis (thank you John Mayer!). You could say I’m being silly and that age is nothing but a number. And you’d probably be right. So why is it then that I am so distressed over this particular age?

To me, 25 represents the end of an era. I can no longer blame irresponsibility on being young. I am no longer a child, I’m in my mid-twenties. I’m not afraid of turning thirty, so why is twenty-five so hard? Growing up I could always picture myself at 16, 18, 21, maybe even 24, but 25 seemed ancient. It’s a boring year. Nothing good happens. Oh wait, you do get a discount on car insurance. But not me. I’m already married, which apparently means I’m “stable”, which means that my insurance company doesn’t know me at all. They totally gipped me on that one. The whole time I’ve been thinking about turning 25 I’ve thought, “Well, at least I’ll get a break on my insurance” If only I had known.

All of this sulking aside, I ended up having a wonderful birthday weekend. (You see, when your birthday falls on a weekend you get to claim the whole thing for yourself. Lucky me!) On Saturday, one of my friends, and her perfect little 11 month old daughter, came up to Boulder and had lunch with us. We did a little drinking (none for the baby of course) and a little shopping in the beautiful 70 degree sunshine that is Colorado semi-winter. But the real highlight of the day was something we had planned long in advance, a trip into Denver to the Comedy Works where Jim Norton was performing stand-up.

I am over the moon obsessed with Jim Norton. You probably have no idea who he is, as is the case of everyone that I’ve talked to about him. He was on the short lived series, Tough Crowd with Colin Quinn, as well as the short lived HBO series Lucky Louie (the canceling of that show is a whole other tragedy in and of itself). But my favorite of his gigs is the Opie and Anthony radio program. He’s their resident comedian. Anyway, we arrived early so as to get the best seats in the house. I wanted to be right up front. When we walked through the door and saw the ridiculously long line, I was shattered. When they opened the showroom doors and the line in which I had been standing patiently, suddenly dissolved and we became one big herd of sheep, I was even more heartbroken. There was no way I was sitting anywhere near the stage now. However, when we got to the usher and told him how many in our party and he responded with, “Would you like to sit on stage?” I was elated. Sure enough there were 4 chairs on the stage, exactly enough for myself and the three people I was with. Turned out I was about 3 feet from him the entire time. It was magical. After the show, I even got to meet him and get a picture taken with him. If I had any idea how to get it from my phone to my computer I would totally share it with you. It was a perfect night, and it wasn’t even my birthday yet.

Sunday, the universe gave me a special present and I got an extra hour of sleep.Along with a wonderful breakfast and a trip to the zoo, my day was complete. Maybe twenty-five won’t be so bad after all, at least not if my birthday weekend is any indication.