When I was younger I always thought that by the time I was 24 I’d have my shit together and have become the perfect hybrid of Elle Woods and Florence Nightingale: a saint with a sassy attitude and a pink business suit to match. After all I left my mother’s womb when she was 24 and Emma Watson’s younger than me and she’s already achieved world domination. By the age of 24 it becomes much harder to convince people that you’re doing well just by quoting Oscar Wilde or claiming you do things for the ‘experience.’ By the age of 24 you’re an adult and there’s nothing you can do about it.
This weekend I turned 24, and as many of my friends regaled me with various tales of their success I realised that I haven’t achieved anything I set out to do as a teenager. Not only am I poor, single and a couple of pounds overweight but I still haven’t received any tweets from Anna Kendrick or Taylor Swift which makes my dream of us becoming the new Destiny’s Child seem even further away.
In an attempt to be more Emma Stone meets Jennifer Lawrence and less Stig of the Dump chic I’ve decided to make a few adjustments to my life such as reading ‘The Times’ and watching documentaries about saving the penguins. Combine that with switching from white to red wine and I’m basically the modern day Audrey Hepburn. As long I seem like I’ve got it together surely there’s no harm in spending my alone time watching reruns of Cupcake Wars and eating an entire bag of Doritos?
It’s my first time ever being a weekend wanker and to be honest I think I’m struggling to deal with the concept of having to fill your weekend with fun before Monday comes around like an ex who just won’t get the message. I was far too excited about living life like a real person as stated by society that I got horrendously drunk on Friday night, was sick in my bathroom sink and spent an hour cleaning at 5am Saturday morning. After that I did nothing for the rest of the weekend apart from eat two large bags of crisps and sour cream dip and watch Katherine Heigl be adorable in an annoying way in 27 dresses. Now it’s Sunday evening and after having spent the last 30 hours indoors I’m contemplating walking around the block to justify putting on a face full of make-up despite seeing no other human beings today. Three cheers to adulthood!
Ever have a defining moment where you realise you are no longer a child? Not even a teenager test-driving life and seeing if you’d like to hop in for a ride. No, you’re a full blown adult and you’re driving this car alone! Well earlier this week I had such a moment, and the subsequent realisation that you are perhaps royally fucked.
In a Friends-Esque flashback I was filling in a form for my new job and reached the section where I have to decide who the primary person to call in case of emergency is when I realised: it’s not my parents. I don’t live in the same city as them, never mind the same house: if I had to call them in a dire emergency I’d be waiting a long fucking time. Where’s HP and his ability to ‘apparate’ when you need it? I’m living in the real world now baby, no longer will my parents come and collect me if I’m feeling ill at school or feed me dry toast and let me watch ‘The Exorcist’ to nurse me back to health. NB: this only happened one time because getting sick is for weak-willed pussy types. But if it did happen I’d have to rely on Google search to find out how close to death I am and hope we have some sort of honey and lemon drink in the cupboard.
It’s a car crash waiting to happen.