A hate letter to: my early 20s

hate-mail

(a glorified pity-party, rant, extravaganza) 

One thing about me- I refuse to have an original experience. Allow me to be a sheep and let me be anyone else but myself, (because surely not evvverybody else is already taken??👄). 

In the interest of having next to no individuality, I will be jumping on the current 'a love letter to' trend that has made a cuck of Substack and instagram poets alike. But make mine a love letter, with a twist (extra dirty): a kind of hate-mail if you will.  A poorly written, hate-fuelled letter to the groggiest age bracket known to man- the early 20s.

I'm taking this early 20s gig quite personally; a bit of a 'up yours' right back at me to be honest. The back and forth, emotional rigmarole of it all renders me ill.

the filthy-gorgeousness of it all

CGP textbooks, the woman you are

Up till now, life is pretty paved out for you- you go to school, you read CGP GCSE and A-Level textbooks like they're chic lit, then you might go to uni or study or get a job. bish bash slop. And then.. post-grad life comes and slaps u in the ass (derogatory). That year after uni was a fever-dream of what nows... There's no script to follow, no direct pipeline mapped out for you, and the comfort of the bubble that you and your peers had always been surrounded by until now, suddenly pops. Bang, and the dirt is gone. You and your gaggle of hags are suddenly spat out into the real world, with some big choices to make. 

And whilst there's liberty and excitement to be had in the new found freedom of so much choice, there's a loneliness in having to make your own grown up decisions. It's reality's clammy hand that slaps you in the face and makes you yearn for the collective bubble of a life once shared with your mates. For the most part, you and your pals have all been living the same sorta life, just in different typography. Then you reach the 21 mark and before you know it, you're existing in a bog-standard Comic Sans fantasy, whilst it looks like everyone else is excelling in Word Art glamour and excitement. (a horrible analogy, written by a horrible girl xxx)

If Kidzania (the role play experience where kiddi-winkles get to dash around Westfield shopping centre and play out different careers for the best part of an afternoon), made a 'Early 20s simulator experience', it would see gaggles of snotty nosed kids divvied up into different groups and live simultaneous lives that operate on a complete dichotomy...

The office bathroom mirror tries to crack herself when she sees me coming, poor thing  

There would be the group of 22 year old home-makers, likely part of a mega-church (other religions are available) with a baby on arm, passive aggressively texting the Whatsapp group chat, that whilst they would love to come to your birthday drinks, there's an Ella's Kitchen muncher who unfortunately, now comes first. There would be the gaggle of corporate baddies who have been locked into the post grad City life since they secured a finance job, and live for Thirsty Thursdays and Clapham Saturday brunches. There's the East London creatives who have managed to scrape together rent for their 'fun size' flat share, but its totally worf it, because East has quite literally got that juice. Then there are those who are constantly travelling because they just don't think the rat race is for them. And then, there lies the rest of us, getting on with it, in a heady, smoke-hazed drudge, incorporating a shit-mix medley of all/some/none of the above, but feeling completely overwhelmed, and slightly underwhelmed.

girls, food, gear- all 20 somefings with completely different prospects, but who all luv pub xxx

The illusion of choice is a filthy-gorgeous thing- we should rejoice at this new found freedom- you've done the predictability of the first chunk of life, now there is freedom to carve out your new life. We're little baby-adult things, old enough to get married, or move out, but too young to have a fully developed pre-frontal cortex, and too young to boast a CV full of career experience and wordly wisdom. It's like playing pretend in a horrible game of mums and dads, and I've been cast as the family dog. Woof.

Our perverted fascination with comparison

Comparison is the thief of joy, we know this. Yet, we have a perverted obsession with it. Because this chapter of life throws up such a higgildy-piggildy variety of individuals in such a vast-range of circumstances, it's easy to think that everybody has got it figured out, or at least, has a bit more of a clue than you. Social media just fuels it- the amount of reels showcasing 'my life as a single 20-something year old living in London' is enough to make even the most mentally stable girlies spiralise like an almond mum spiralising courgettes for her courgetti carbonara. yuck on toast.

don't rile the dog

In my case, I think comparison and the perception that everyone's flyinnnngg, is compounded by my current job. I single-handily bring down the average age of the office by 20 decades (not a flex, just a fact) xxx Constantly being told that 'you're so young, you've got yer hole life ahead of yer' and 'oh you're too young to know that reference!' does polish my ego, whilst reminding me that I've got my whole future to figure things out-great. But, it also acts as a sort of barrier between myself and the other 20-somethings who might be trying to figure out what they want their life to look like, whilst trudging through the throes of your 20s. Visibility and representation, babes- and I couldn't be further from that. When my 9-5 is rubbing shoulders with those who are married with children, it becomes easy to think that I'm running behind... Of course, you natter with your pals from outside work about the throes of working life, but not living it side by side with them in the daily 9-5 begins to make you feel somewhat disillusioned and detached.

I crave the camaraderie of coffee machine chats and post-work drinks with someone who also doesn't have a mortgage-call it yearning, call it craving a sense of belonging. Especially considering that in your early-20s, its more than likely that a generous handful of your mates will disperse across the globe and end up moving away... Belonging and a sense of 'togetherness' becomes more imperative than ever. You know times are tough, when you start yearning for your first, post-uni barista job, simply because you were working with other young things and you could speak in a Gen-Z fuelled vernacular that actually landed (as opposed to being met with blank looks and desperation).

Corporate life is summed up by the illicit affair between myself and Platorm 22, Waterloo station. It always smells like a cheeky bloody Nandos there.

So far, my early 20s has felt like I've got one Tabi foot-adorned in the door, and one Tabi out. I've landed a good job in the city and am finally part of the commuting rat-race, surrounded by briefcases and Pret cups. I have my own pot of gold at the end of the rainbow (aka a monthly salary), and I can buy a round, go on holidays, pay for gym classes and do silly things- sweet. But in the same school of thought, I also still live at home, in the same leafy suburb that I grew up in, with a good job, but one that's not my dream (lowkey because I can't even visualise what the 'dream' even looks like).

I'M literally obsessed with the passage of time passing, promise 

Realistically, this blog post could have been a diary entry-safe under the pages of a Vtech voice-activated secret diary. But I had to air my dirty laundry because the more I speak to other 20-somethings, the more I realise we're all just trying to figure it out, one Hinge date, backpacking extravaganza and entry-level job at a time. Whilst the panic settles as I deep that I barely have a clue of what's coming next, I'm also trying to lean into it. Be a bit uncomfortable with the unknown. If the past is anything to go by, it's that life happens, and nothing stays stagnant 4ever so I might as-well embrace it. It's a narrative laiden in covert-ageism, but I'd rather be clueless but optimistic in my 20s, than later in life (sorry future me, if you're reading in and having a midlife crisis- I sincerely hope it picks up 4 u hunneh).

I've started reconnecting with old mates who I haven't spoken to in years, nurturing current friendships over pints and group chats and jollies out on the District Line, and looking forward to meeting new faces in ways that I can't even predict yet. Gorgeous. I'm a shame-ridden carnivore again, when this time last year I was a Quorn veteran, I've progressed from a part-time church job to a 9-5, where it wouldn't be completely amiss if I wore a blazer and fashioned a briefcase. I'm going to be an auntie in 2 months, and one of my best friends is moving back to london in a month, (by which time, I plan to proposition her with the idea of moving in together to a flatshare in a postcode that's only reachable by the Overground). 

Things change... and thats actually not too shabby. The days can be long, but the years? Shorter than Tiny Tim. So whilst your 20s can be a time full of frustration and expectation, its also a bit of a free pass to fuck around and find out. The rough makes the smooth and all that good stuff. Because if i've learnt anything so far, its that today's news is tomorrow's chip paper. (no, please, give us another predictable one-liner).

I have no clue what the next year will look like, but I will try and romanticise it (ideally, with a poorly rolled cig in hand, whilst I develop what I want my next 3-month stint personality trait to be).

Besos and bisou xxx