Friday, 8 June 2012

You're Not Nineteen Forever

I've been slightly absent from the bloggersphere for the past month. I have purchased many a shoe and succumbed to the make up phenomenon that is Estée Lauder Double Wear but I've not really had the time or the desire to post. It's been a funny old month and I've mulled over many a thing. I think it comes with the anniversary of my returning to the nest. It certainly doesn't feel like a year and I certainly didn't think I'd still be in the nest one year later. The truth is I'm completely at a loss as to what to do next...

I'm not 19, far from it. And although I am frequently and generously told I look younger, the face staring back at me on the treadmill seems to disagree. As does my birth certificate! I am 26 and living with my parents. When I was 19 I thought this was the height of "uncool" yet here I am. I curse the quarterlife crisis that made me rock the boat that was so calmly and purposefully sailing along. But I had to be like Pocahontas... I didn't want the smoothest course... I wanted adventure and excitement. Only thing is, I can't decide what kind of adventure I want to have. My brain is firing an arsenal of questions at me daily. Do I continue to save for a flat? Do I bite the bullet and rent on my own? Do I stay where I am or move away? Is my job the right job for me? ... These would be far easier to answer if I was 19 because then I'd pack up for the summer and wave goodbye to these decisions because it wouldn't really matter about making them.

I sort of feel like I've lived my 20s in reverse. Relationship, mortgage and cat when I should've been reckless. And now that I want to reckless I can't because I am a grown up - I am a grown up with a grown ups job. Fact. I keep telling my friends in similar situations that 26 is young. "Honestly, it's the new 21!" I say nodding and smiling excessively in an effort to convince myself as well as them... But it IS... right? I mean Carrie and the gang were all in their 30s when Sex and the City began. *Gulp* We're obsessed with age as a society, especially the age of women. Take for instance the Caroline-Flack-Saga. Nobody cared about anything other than that poor woman's age. Cougar. Cradle snatcher. If she was a man she'd have been called... well, nothing because people wouldn't have batted an eyelid. I try not to let the age thing bother me but unfortunately it seems to follow wherever I go. Whether it was the annoying yet flattering 19 year old demanding to see my drivers license in order to prove I was "old" or the 21 year old who said that if she hadn't settled down and was secure in her life by 26 she would consider herself a failure or heading to a club night and realising the attire for the evening was hot pants, high-tops and trucker caps ...Oh don't mind me, I'll just retire to the corner and weep while you shimmy around with your lithe mahogany limbs doing the duck-pout! (I am not bitter obviously)

And so I return to my original quandary: 26, living with my parents and unable to make a decision. Perhaps this year I'll manage to be a little more decisive, who knows I may make the decision that shapes my future "course"... I at least hope that I can make a decision at some point this year because I don't think this article will read so well if I'm writing it at 27!

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