I find being twenty something a real puzzle. Half my friends are getting married, the other half are drunk and cant even find their phones, and i’m just fumbling around somewhere in the middle looking for food.
Bombarded from all angles, in the age where everyone seems to have their shit together and everything is nicely filtered and documented on social media from holidays, babies and houses to baked eggs. It’s pretty much impossible not to draw some kind of comparisons between yourself and your nearest and dearest (and those you follow on Instagram because, well look at that contour though).
I have friends that came out of the womb with a to do list and a gmail account. You know those people that own multiple houses, have a successful business, children, are married and look like they wrote the “how to slay at life” manual. While the rest of us scroll vicariously through seemingly perfect lives, feeling a little worse for wear in bed on a Saturday morning with the Morley’s fried chicken of the night previous, hinting at making an un-wanted reappearance.
The more I read, the worse I feel. I mean, I should be eating gluten free, I should be moisturising three times a day, I should own a house, I should be higher on the career ladder, I should be regularly donating to charity and I should logically have an ab by now, just one, for the love of all things high in protein?! Whereas in reality I slept through my alarm this morning and accidentally punched myself in the face in my hurry to get the “five second rule” bacon I’d dropped on the floor.
I am resolutely guilty of feeling guilty. The morning commute consists of being stuffed in someone’s armpit scrolling through Instagram where everyone’s spent the weekend volunteering in a soup kitchen, are in Bali or have spent two hours in the gym. And I’ve rolled out of bed with a carb bloat like Jabba the Hutt wondering if anyone can tell that I’ve strategically ironed my shirt with hair straighteners. Why didn’t I get up earlier, why is my bank account showing single figures, why does my hair look as if it is currently home to a family of birds, why, why, why?!
I don’t think the pressure we put on ourselves actually achieves much at all apart from sending us all into an unproductive flap. Crying into a glass of £3 Wetherspoons Shiraz awaiting the long awaited arrival of pay day – fine. But letting sharpened, Valencia triple filtered homemade olive, sun dried tomato and balsamic Foccacia bread make you feel bad about your life choices, no, just not okay.
The thing about your twenties is there’s always so much pressure to know what the fuck you’re doing, sort your shit out, have a plan, ask the correct questions, be going in the right direction. With most of the pressure coming from yourself and the ideals you’ve defined as “normal” or “what you should be doing”. With the occasional “what’s next then Han, I owned two houses by the time I was your age” grenade being chucked in from the stepdad from time to time.
But your twenties is the time that it’s actually ok to not know what you’re doing, to make mistakes and learn from them, learn a new language. fall in love, write, draw, travel and eat leftover pizza for breakfast. Because sometimes it’s the wrong direction and the least planned bits that end up being the most fun, to just be and enjoy the present is sometimes enough for now, and to be honest baked eggs are a bit shit anyway.
Peace, Love & False Lashes xo