When I was 16 (which, I think we can all agree, is the worst age) I remember believing my 20-year-old ex-babysitter really had her shit together. I, a little chubby with terrible hair, disasturous clothes and bright blue braces, wanted more than anything to be like her. Charming, pretty, confident with cool clothes, a cartilage piercing and great hair, she was my idea of what 20 must be like. It was mainly that she seemed to have it all figured out – as though all the mysteries and problems that life poses when your 16 were no longer relevant to her. So, last Friday on my 20th birthday, I was ready to be that person; cool, composed, wise and collected.
What the fuck?
Since being 20 I have: had numerous anxiety attacks about work/friends/boys, cried three times, gone on angry rages about boys twice, been drunk four times (once on a Monday), sat on my bed and watched Netflix for too many hours and spent an outrageous amount on chocolate. It’s only been a week.
On the plus side, I do have a cartilage piercing. And the neon blue braces are long gone.
Yes, undoubtedly things have gotten better since I was a 16-year-old school girl. However, atleast when you’re 16 you’re supposed to mess up and everyone anticipates that you’ll grow out the terrible fringe and learn to speak to boys.
Now I’m supposed to be grown-up and remember to wash my sheets atleast once a fortnight and not fall asleep in seminars and check my bank statement to make sure I haven’t spent too much on gel pens and creme eggs.
It’s a bit much if you’re asking me.
The real issue here is my fellow 20-year-old university peers who act as though they’re absolutely-fucking-fabulous all the bloody time. Consequently, we’re forced to live in our own little bubble of cluelessness as we desperately try and keep up with those around us. Only to one day discover that no one had any idea what they were doing and Jenny only washed her sheets every four weeks and Tom never went to a single one of his seminars anyway.
So, being very cliché, I want to write a blog about these turbulant times. Writing helps me make sense of things when I have no idea what’s going on.
Welcome to my clueless 20s. I’m expecting to make disastruous decisions and truly embarassing mistakes from here until I’m 30, when surely things must improve.