The other day I noticed that I’m halfway to my inevitable mid-life crisis, which means I’m right in the middle of my quarter-life crisis. Wikipedia defines a quarter-life crisis as, “a period of life following the major changes of adolescence, usually ranging from the late teens to the early thirties, in which a person begins to feel doubtful about their own lives, brought on by the stress of becoming an adult.” Yep, that sounds about right. Thanks, ‘Pedia.

Becoming an adult is difficult because being a kid is so easy. Our parents are to blame, really. Remember middle school? High school? Yeah, we didn’t do anything, ever, because we didn’t have to. No trials, tribulations or failures. Lesson one: nothing ever works out the way you planned. Was that so hard, mom and dad? Six-year-old Caleb could have handled that bombshell. Well, maybe.

I’m kidding of course. Nothing can prepare us for what’s about to come, not even our parents. We can take comfort in knowing we’re all in this boat together. If anyone knows where the boat is going, though, please let me know. I have friends joining dating websites, being nice to strangers, posting annoying, inspirational quotes on Facebook, reading books for pleasure and joining bowling leagues to meet “new people.” The other day I considered opening a 401k and I started following Tony Robbins on Twitter. (I recommend doing both) But seriously, who are we?

The difference between a quarter-life crisis and a mid-life crisis is that mid-life crises are fun and something that I’m kind of looking forward to. Forty-somethings generally have some extra money to spend on a new car or a trip around the world. They get to go out and party with the younger crowd and neglect their children to live it up for a bit. Afterwards they just go back to their normal, familiar lives. And yes, these are our parents (take a closer look). Us twenty-somethings have no disposable income or time to blow on our (hopefully) temporary crises. And what happens after is still to be determined. We just have to sit here. Thinking. About. Everything.

Wikipedia also says that the notion of the quarter-life crisis is shown in movies like The Graduate, Garden State, Office Space, 500 Days of Summer and Lost in Translation. As if I wasn’t already sure I was in the midst of my own crisis, these are five of my favorite movies. Anyone who hasn’t seen these must do so immediately. And if you have, but didn’t particularly care for them, watch them again if you’re in full crisis mode. You will truly enjoy them.

The truth is that nobody has it figured out. If somebody says they do, they’re lying, and you have my permission to call them a lying liar. We’re real people with real life problems, and it’s okay to acknowledge that. All we can do is the best we can and trust that everything will work out in the end, because, it will. I promise.

I hope everyone has a wonderful finals week. Summer is right around the corner. Congratulations to those of you who are graduating! I wish you all the luck in the world with your 2/5-life crisis.

8:01 a.m. 

I wake up to throw a Twins shirt and jeans in the washer because I have no clean clothes except for an Orioles shirt, ironically, which I bought sarcastically.

8:03 a.m. 

I go back to sleep.

9:02 a.m. 

I put my clothes in the dryer.

9:04 

I go back to sleep.

11 a.m. 

I wake up, get dressed and walk 0.8 miles to the nearest metro station to take me to the train station. On my way there I get a 20-piece Chicken Mcnugget meal from McDonalds, which doesn’t make the walk any easier. In fact, I felt the effects of those nuggets all day. This guy knows what I’m talking about! (Motion to the larger gentleman. (Just kidding, there is nobody here.))

12:43 p.m. 

I arrive at the station for the 1:05 train to Baltimore. Except it’s a 1:45 train, because it’s delayed. But, while waiting, I find a five-dollar bill on the ground. After tirelessly searching for the rightful owner for two or three seconds, I decide to keep it. Loser’s weepers.

1:45 p.m. 

Off to Baltimore. A 46-minute train ride would be a good chance to take a nap if a little child wasn’t screaming. His mom gives him an iPad, he calms down. Thank you, Steve Jobs.

2:46 p.m. 

I arrive in Baltimore safely.

3:12 p.m. 

I arrive at Oriole Park at Camden Yards. Unfortunately the gates don’t open until 5 p.m. for a 7 p.m. game so I spend some time walking around the stadium taking in the sights and awkwardly high-fiving random Twins’ fans. (I may have hugged a few.)

3:26 p.m. 

I find a bar with a man outside holding a sign that says, “cheap (expletive) beer” and yelling, “cheap (expletive) beer!” … Redundant, but sold.

4:30 p.m. 

After spending $20 dollars at the “cheap beer” place (2 for $5, do the math), it was time to walk back to the stadium and wait in line.

4:45 p.m. 

While waiting in line I play a game I like to call “Ruin As Many People’s Day As I Can,” which consists of me offering to take pictures for other people, and putting my finger over the lens each time. I like seeing how many chances they give me before they give up. One family let me ruin four pictures before they asked somebody else. Also, I made funny faces in the background of eight other people’s pictures. I’m 23-years-old.

5:01- 6:30 p.m. 

The gates open and I walk around a little before settling in my seat just before game time.

6:46 – 7:05 p.m. 

I make a little small talk with the Oriole fan sitting next to me. She happens to be an elementary school librarian.

Her: “I’m an elementary school librarian. What do you do?”

Me: “Oh, I’m an elementary school librarian too!”

Her: “So, are you from Minnesota?”

Me: “Yeah, but don’t worry, I’m not too obnoxious.”—A lie

“I’ll try to keep it under control.” – Another lie

7:05 – 7:30 p.m.

The Twins racked up zero hits in the first inning. Disappointing, but not surprising. But the Twins starting pitcher, Francisco Liriano, strikes out the first three hitters, prompting this gem of heckling from me: “How’s that feel, librarian lady!?”

7:30 – 10:20 p.m. 

Basically nothing good happens except I buy a $5.00 hot dog. Twins lose 8-2 and I am completely obnoxious and absolutely not under control.

11 p.m. 

I get back to the train station, where I see a couple other Twins’ fans. We console each other and try to convince ourselves that it’s not that bad and life will go on. We all know better than to actually believe it.

11:50 p.m. 

Our train hits a deer five miles outside of D.C. We’re unable to continue because the deer cut our break line. Stranded.

3:05 a.m. 

After over three hours of waiting in a dark, motionless train and counting how many similarities there are between my exact situation and horror movies where everyone gets murdered, another train comes along to push us home to D.C.

3:50 a.m. 

I finally get back to D.C. Only now, the metro has closed. My only way home is a cab. Crap.

4:35 a.m. 

I finally get a cab — before even asking me where I’m going, the driver says, “30 bucks.” Crap.

4:57 a.m. 

I get home and it’s time for bed, at last. Baltimore is okay, I guess

Knowing full well that I’ll only be in D.C. for a short time and that most people I meet will never see me again, I’ve been granted the opportunity to pretend to be whatever and whomever I want to single-serving friends all over the city. This has proven to be more fun than I could have ever imagined.

Obviously, I’ve used some of the moves from Wedding Crashers. I’ve been from Vermont with an emerging maple syrup conglomerate. I’ve been a pimp from Oakland, a cowboy from Arizona and a venture capitalist. Some are more believable than others. One time I even said my name was Tyler Durden and that I make and sell soap, which is directly from Fight Club. The fact that the people I said it to didn’t pick up on the reference meant they have never seen the movie, which let me know we could never be close friends anyway. I mean, you have never seen Fight Club? C’mon.

All of these careers are more interesting to single-serving friends than “intern from South Dakota.” Especially considering nobody out here knows the difference between North and South Dakota. All these fake personalities come with unlimited diverging conversations that let my imagination run wild:

“Oh, you sell soap, huh?”

“Yeah, it’s really rewarding work. Knowing people smell good because of me makes it really easy for me to sleep at night. It’s truly my calling.”

Unfortunately, I can’t keep it going forever. Usually by the end, the truth has come out that I’m not really who I was pretending to be and we’ll have a nice laugh at how gullible they were. But it doesn’t happen every time; there are probably a few people running around the city talking about the pimp from Oakland they met on the bus and how surprisingly charming he was.

As a below-average looking guy, there isn’t much room between the way I look now and a completely unacceptable physical appearance. If I lose my hair I could be dangerously close to crossing the line into, “walk around the block to avoid me” ugly. Granted, my hair is probably only my eighth-best feature, but without it, I expose my third-worst feature, my sixth-worst feature and my ninth-worst feature: my oddly shaped head, inability to grow a cool goatee and the Texas-shaped birthmark behind my ear, respectively.

I wasn’t planning on growing a goatee until well into my 30s. But as we all know, bald guys have goatees. Or have at least tried the goatee look. Taking the leap to grow a goatee is scary, especially for me, since my facial hair is weird looking. Go ahead and mess around with a mustache, but you absolutely do not want to grow a goatee until you’re positively ready. I’m not ready. But without hair on my head I would have to abide by the unwritten rule to attempt it.

I know myself. I’ll be one of those bald guys who can’t let it go. I’ll try the comb over look, and maybe even the bald guy pulled back ponytail look. My only hope is that my friends or family will be kind enough to tell me how ridiculous I look before it’s too late.

Some guys can pull off the no hair look: Bruce Willis, Michael Jordan, Professor Cecil. They don’t know how lucky they are; it doesn’t end well for the rest of us. If I knew losing my hair would make me look like John McClane, I’d be like, “Heck yeah, bring on the bald!” But no, I will look like E.T. So I’ve decided that when my baldness occurs, I will be a toupee wearer and there is nothing wrong with that. Okay!?

Baldness doesn’t really run in my family, but neither does awesomeness, and I’ve pretty much been rocking that since birth. Anything is possible. I have already ordered three toupees online from a sketchy toupee-selling website that probably identity-thefted me already. Once, and if, they arrive in the mail I will post pictures and tally your votes for the best one. Hopefully by the time I need to wear it, you’ll have forgotten all about this and I can go on with my hair having life. Only time will tell.

Living in D.C. has forced me to utilize public transportation every single day. At the very best, it’s inconvenient and at the very worst it’s unbearably dreadful. Planning a route is a headache because it is impossible to accurately predict arrival times since there are so many unforeseen circumstances that can throw off the estimated time of arrival. I leave at the same time every day, but there are times that I’m 20 minutes early while other times I’m 20 minutes late. One morning I was late because someone got sick on the metro and another time because there was a “suspicious” passenger. Usually by the time I get to the office, I’m crabby.

Lately, though, I’ve noticed my mood has been oddly chipper upon my arrival in the mornings, which I think is starting to scare my colleagues. For a while, I couldn’t put my finger on why I was suddenly tolerable to be around; I thought it could be the new shirt I added to my regular rotation, or the week old beard I’ve been rocking. But I think I’ve figured out the real reason: bus drivers.

The first couple of weeks in D.C., I had been walking and taking the metro everywhere. But recently I started taking the bus to shave minutes off of my commute. It’s a little bit more expensive, but I think it’s been worth it.

Bus drivers are the heart and soul of Washington D.C. They’re always greeting people with a smile and a friendly, “Good morning!” They get everyone to their destinations as quickly and as safely as they can and have even been known to give a free ride now and then.

There are a lot of people to talk to on the bus, but I’ve started sitting up front to talk to the drivers instead. I have yet to encounter one who was in a bad mood and they always have something good to say. Somehow, they’re able to hold a conversation about virtually anything, whether it’s sports, the weather, popular culture or my week old beard which they sometimes mention in a funny line or helpful tidbit. Like, “Shave that thing, you look stupid.”

My favorite part of the morning commute, though, is the pep talk. These bus drivers take it upon themselves to make us feel like champions before we start our day. They’re like the coach of a team; the few seconds between them stopping the bus and us getting off is their pregame, and we’re their players looking for inspiration. Some mornings it’s as simple as, “Have a great day!” Other times it’s more intense like, “You go out and make today count!” No matter what though, they leave us with something.

Making the bus a part of my morning routine has made the first few hours of each day easier to get through. It’s nice to see people enjoying their job; it can be quite contagious.

I love “Party In The U.S.A.” by Miley Cyrus. 

We all play this song sarcastically at parties and it always gets a couple whoops and prompts a sing along, the drunker, the louder. But I really do like this song, and I play it when I’m alone, frequently. Right now, it’s the third most played song on my iTunes behind Shaggy’s “Mr. Boombastic” and Taylor Swift’s “Love Story.”

I can dance. 

Anyone who knows me knows that I don’t dance. But it’s not because I can’t, because I can. I can dance better than you. Waaay better. Sometimes, before bed, I do the entire “Thriller” dance in front of the mirror. RIP, MJ.

My favorite thing about winter is watching people slip on the ice. 

I know this sounds bad, but I’m not wishing for these people to get hurt. I always make sure they’re okay and I don’t laugh in front of them. But when I walk away I almost immediately tell everyone I just watched somebody bite it big time, and I definitely tweet about it. Classic.

“How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days” 

I have seen this movie four times.

I watch the WNBA. 

I make fun of it a lot, but I do watch it. The Minnesota Lynx won the championship last year. It was nice to be a winner since the Twins were so disappointing. I actually started to enjoy watching them and even though none of them can even touch the net, I expect I will continue to do so.

I’m lazy. 

I would explain this one, but it’s like, a lot of typing. Forget that.

I like talking in weird accents. 

On any given night, you could hear me pretending to be 30-40 different people. Some people I know fairly well have quite possibly never heard me speak in my real voice. The best part about funny voices is creating crazy catch phrases to match them. Try it.

I keep up with celebrity gossip. 

I have wasted countless hours of my life reading about stupid celebrity gossip. I love it. Speaking of which, did you hear Snooki is pregnant?

There. I feel much better.

The most mature thing I’ve done lately is admitting to myself that no matter how old I get, I will always be a child. I spent my entire youth and adolescence waiting for the day to come when I could announce my arrival into adulthood, but it is becoming clear that day will never come; I’m as immature as I’ve ever been.

Now, I know we all grow up in different ways a nd at different times,

The Loftstel

I was forced to find immediate, and affordable housing. The best I could come up with was “The Loftstel,” which is a house specifically for interns and international students. There are about 30 people living here and between four and eight people per room; it’s basically like the “Real World” except the house is crappy, we’re not allowed to drink alcohol, and only half of us speak English. Obviously, a bunch of broke, sober, 20-somethings struggle to find things to do; I’ve gotten pretty good at “Monopoly.”

Another issue with this living situation is showering. The water is always freezing cold and every morning I have to decide: do I care enough about my hygiene to suffer through eight minutes of agony? Sometimes, the answer is no.

Public Transit

Riding the metro would be pretty awesome if I was the only one who did it. Going to work everyday is like the running of the bulls, without the bulls. Everyone is pushing and shoving while trying to get to the same place. When, and if, I ever find a place to sit, I somehow always get stuck sitting next to someone who is blaring bad techno music on his or her iPod. What’s the point of wearing headphones if you play it loud enough for everyone to hear anyway?

Escalator Etiquette

In Brookings, escalators are not all that common. Maybe that’s why it took me so long to understand that there is a very specific way to use them. Now, call me crazy, but I always thought escalators were invented to avoid walking up the stairs. As a lazy person, I love this idea. But apparently, they were invented so we can get up the stairs FASTER. Everyone in D.C. runs up and down them. For the first couple of days I just stood there and people ran past me in disgust.

Paying to use the bathroom

In D.C., fast food restaurants think it’s OK to charge for their bathroom services. Yes, I’m serious. I never thought I would have to pay to do something like that. It feels as though I’m being encouraged to crap my pants. I went to Wendy’s the other day specifically to use the bathroom on my way to the train and I couldn’t because I didn’t have any change. Maybe If I just go on their floor a couple times they will reconsider charging me. They’re asking for it.

Everyone is better at swearing

I consider myself a swearing connoisseur, but in D.C. I’m just small fish in a big pond of swearing beluga wales. These people are geniuses at expressing themselves in an angry or negative way.  I’m truly jealous; but I’m taking every chance I get to learn their ways and take the Midwest by storm upon my return in May. Look out, Brookings.

Don’t be scared

Adapting to these changes will take time, but I’m confident that I will be able to do it and leave with a memorable experience. I think I will be very happy that I did it and I would encourage anyone from SDSU to take chances to experience something new. A different, bigger city can be intimidating, but if you take on the challenge with confidence and fortitude you will see that the big city is more afraid of us Midwest kids than we are of it.