why and what for

At the end of last week, I turned twenty-five. Big-picture wise, not at all a bad age to be.
I'm at the very (very) beginning of my career, to use such a horrifying word, and have a relationship that may just stick. The scary realization is that, with both of those, I can't know it's "the one." Not really, not with absolute proof-positive certainty. I can believe, hope, trust, put faith in, and bet my bottom dollar, but I can't prove it until I'm dead.
But really, that's beside the point.
The real point is like this: When I was in middle school, my middle-class, white, suburban school held many "assemblies" with various messages: don't smoke, don't litter, NASA needs your parent's money, when your old enough vote, and of course, drinking and driving will kill you dead. The later presentation was called "Alive at Twenty-Five" and toured the country with boom-boxes, sets, skit-actors, beer goggles, an obstacle course, and a totaled Camry. The title "Alive at Twenty-Five" was because, according to statistics, the likelihood of dying in a car crash drops significantly after the age of twenty-five. (Those presentations always had massive logic-jumps when it came to statistics—like since 44% of teens who die do so in car accidents, and nearly half of those deaths are drug/alchohol related, so if you drink and drive you will die with the same likelihood of playing Russian Roulette with 4 of the chambers loaded. I do not condone drunk driving; I just condemn bad math.)
To a thirteen year old, the message of Alive at Twenty-Five seemed to be that if you make it half-way to thirty, you're golden. Because of math.
    And because at twenty-five, you will inevitably

• be gainfully employed,
• be super responsible with responsible friends,
• have finished with the death trap that is college,
• have clear skin
• be able to hold your liquor
• etc, etc.

These ideas about half-way to thirty have been imbedded in my psyche since that tender young age, and it is still difficult to completely let go of them, despite oodles of proof to the otherwise. Twenty-five is the last benchmark before genuine adult-hood. I am now trustworthy enough to rent a car, merely because I was born in 1986.
I have the right balance of luck and intelligence that I've never really had to try very hard. I've rarely had to study, struggle daily for money or a job or stuff like that. The result is that I'm growing increasingly aware of a possible gap. A gap between what I do and what I am capable of doing, between who I am and who I am capable of being, between me and my potential for awesome. If you're thinking "oh, poor you" in a sarcastic voice, I'm right there with you. I've got it pretty good, all things considered, but I have this nagging feeling that I could be more worthy of all of it. So I'm going to try. Put in effort. Work at it with some deliberate and, at least sometimes, focused force.
Part of me thinks of this as an insurance policy. If, one day, forces outside of my control start to make my life truly suck, at least I'll be a stronger, more capable, more awesome person to offset it. Also, I just might be emotionally ready to be a real adult when I'm twenty-six. Better late than never.