I'm torn between uncontrollable excitement and a very, very profound sense of sadness that the final Harry Potter movie has actually been released.
...by the way, can we talk for one second about how depressing it is to be an adult and not able to attend the Friday midnight showing because I have (wait for it) be at work at 8 AM on Friday.... It's bollocks, I tell you.
Seriously though, I was 11 when these books came out. In fact, they were given to me shortly before my 12th birthday (best birthday present EVER, Grandma). I liked to imagine that maybe J.K. Rowling had it wrong, in those few days before I turned 12 ... that maybe you were accepted into Hogwarts shortly before your 12th birthday instead. My letter was taking an awfully long time to get there, and I'd have to withdraw from muggle middle school and buy my supplies pretty quickly, and oh my gosh how would my parents react? That is not a joke, I walked around thinking that very thing. I had a very active imagination, okay?
I found this quote in the LA Times so touching and true: "A class of early-mid twentysomethings were pre-adolescents when the first book came out, roughly the same age as the characters, and grew up with them in lock-step... As hard as the series' end is for all Potterites, it is perhaps hardest for this group, who see in the franchise's finale the conclusion of their own childhoods."
That "hotness" link above will actually take you to an entire timeline for the Potter cast, complete with pictures, that you can peruse on a Saturday morning if you're creepy like me. Seriously though, how did this happen?
I guess we're all adults now.
At least until the fantasy cultural phenomenon sweeps the world and it's again acceptable to go to book release parties wearing wizard robes and wielding magic wands.