I am the oldest 20-year-old ever. That is, at least, how I explain the gray hairs popping up on my head and the uncanny ability to worry about work even when I’m trying to do everything but. It’s sad but true – I’m becoming a responsible old man.

In the sixth grade, my teacher told me I’d have an ulcer before I hit 25 because I work too hard. First off – don’t tell kids scary things like that. I think subconsciously I decided I’d prove the woman wrong by having a heart attack before 22, just to show her I’m an overachiever.

I’m that kid who volunteers to help out with a project knowing full well there’s no time in the week to fit it in. I’m the one that everyone tells to relax, to back off on academics and activities and worry about himself for once. But I get a charge out of getting thing done – working myself to death is the only way I know how to live.

The results? A kid who gets a lot of stuff done, but feels like an old man.

This transitional period in life is difficult to manage, though. I used to think being 14 was odd. I was too old for toys but too young for cars. What was I to do but ponder why hair was growing out of all ends of my body?

Now, I’m riding the line between being a mature, responsible adult and a rowdy, crazy college student. And while I’m generally leaning toward the former rather than the latter, I’m not sure which group I’m supposed to be a part of.

And I still haven’t figured out this body hair issue.

This weekend I went to the grocery store with one of my old roommates. He was armed with the typical college guy grocery list: food, beer, soap, razor. Simple as that. But somewhere in those dazzling aisles of Hy-Vee we started picking out the makings of a complete, healthy meal, and my friend announced that he wanted to cook our friends dinner that night.

While he started picking out a main course and side items, it dawned on us that he was hosting a dinner party. What had happened to us? Having a party never involved Martha Stewart-ish ideas before. And yet somehow that afternoon we had gone from tailgating to casserole cooking.

We got old. It scared me very much.

Seven of us dined on a real meal that night, and one of our own had actually prepared it. No food service. No restaurants. No food smuggled via Gladware from back home. No microwaves, even.

Afterwards, dishes were done and the trash was taken out. This from the kids that used to play “Trash Jenga” in our dorm room, a game which involves steady hands and the ability to stack a disgusting amount of trash into a tower, sometimes until it reaches the ceiling. The winners get to watch whoever toppled the tower take ol’ “TJ” to the dump.

Everyone’s always told me I’m too responsible for my own good. But I refuse to believe that in the course of two years at college I’ve gone from the Century Club to the old folks’ home.

There has to be some way to live in both worlds. I can be a high-achiever during the week and a kid on the weekends. I can remember to study Sunday through Thursday and, well, not remember anything about Friday or Saturday, can’t I?

I can straddle the two worlds of college life and still come out on top. Experiencing these years of my life includes taking the good influences with the bad, and I’ve gotten good at juggling a successful college career with a successful college social life.

But growing up’s a frightening thing. I think I’ve always been ready for it myself; you get used to the idea of being old when your teachers foretell your potential causes of death at the hands of a stressful career and when those you’re close to start to question whether you love work more than them.

Seeing my Trash Jenga playmates and party pals get old makes me realize it’s not just an attitude anymore, though – we really are coming to the years when we have to act our age, if we can ever figure out what it is people our age are supposed to be doing.

Cavan Reagan is a junior in journalism and mass communications and English from Bellevue, Neb. He is the research assistant for the Daily.