roaring twenties

Hello, hello :))

Since turning twenty, I’ve been thinking. Is there ever really a “best time of your life”? The overwhelming consensus seems to be that your twenties have always been and will remain the best time of one’s life. Then, the arrival of shows such as Sex and the City and the beloved movie 13 Going on 30 pedalled the idea that your thirties and above are actually the best, it’s the best to be “thirty, flirty, and thriving”. That between twenty and twenty-nine you’re still a baby, and that your thirties, forties, fifties, sixties and beyond can be your greatest years. As a teen, I was so desperate to try new things, not be socially awkward, be invited to raging house parties, get accepted into all the top universities and maybe kiss a few boys. None of that happened. Well, I did attend a few parties, but I have no memory of any of them being particularly “fun”, or it seemed to be the ones I wasn’t at where everyone seemed to meet people and have a great time. I kissed one boy, but that was on holiday; no one who knew me, or at least knew of my existence, at school or in my city wanted to, and I did get accepted into four of the five very good schools I applied to, but I failed to meet my expected grades. So, to avoid having to attend my dreaded insurance choice, I scrapped my whole application and applied again after completing my A-Levels. It honestly felt as if your teens were supposed to be your most fun-loving, reckless, romantic years. Even to myself now, just a couple of years later, after I used to think this way, this is absolutely ridiculous. But for some reason, those crucial ages between fifteen and eighteen felt like you were supposed to “define the you you are going to be” and how wild you could be. As if there and then were the moments you would make all the critical decisions you would ever make in your life.

Reading that back, I’ve revealed a very damp and depressing version of my teenage years when, in fact, they really weren’t that bad. I’m being dramatic. Nevertheless, everything I wrote is true. Sometimes I think I read too much- or at least watch way too many rom-coms- that they have ultimately warped my mind about what life is supposed to look like. I am the person with a mental checklist of everything I wanted to do as a teenager, in my early twenties, and everything I should have achieved by thirty. Because the truth is, I don’t want to wait until I’m thirty for everything to start feeling good. By nineteen, I was ready to just wait for the moment when people would finally stop reacting like “wow, I thought you were older” whenever I told them my age, because being twenty is finally being a grown-up. I was ready for a fresh start. Now, I regret thinking that way. Yes, entering my twenties is a major milestone, and a fresh start, one that I cannot wait to explore, but my wishing to be older and worrying that I wasn’t “accomplishing” everything I was supposed to be doing just wasted time. Because I don’t want to be “mature for my age” anymore, I want to be and act my age. I want to be impulsive, a little bit stupid and reckless, because it is true that at twenty I can afford to be.

I’ve decided that, kind of, I will be giving up my lists. I refuse to sit around and worry about the fact that I haven’t been in a real relationship yet or that I still haven’t settled on a viable career path to work towards once I graduate, and I refuse to accept that I will work towards “normal”. Indeed, I am average; I’m not talented at much. It’s a strange opinion to have of yourself, but it’s one I was settled with. I live in a big city, surrounded by young people full of big dreams and goals, and maybe they are more talented than me. But I can’t control that; all I can control is how hard I work and how focused I am on what I want, not the fact that I’m competing for it. I’ve come to realise that the acceptance of one’s ordinality is not good enough. It’s not good enough to be normal. Because what is normal anyway? I don’t mean to become all philosophical, but let’s face it, “normal” for most may be to finish mandatory education, maybe attend and graduate university, find a career, hopefully a well-paying one, find a partner, get married, have a little litter and buy a house big enough for all of you, and then start living. But who honestly knows someone whose life has been that simple and organised, and in a way, perfect? Because it’s not normal, it’s one person’s version of normal. And maybe it’s not mine. Deep down, I really, really, really hope that doesn’t become my normal. Because maybe my goal in life shouldn’t be to be normal, but not bored.

The only standard I’m holding myself to in my twenties will be to say “yes” more. I have nothing to lose. I know I have a not-entirely-stupid head on my shoulders, that I work hard, and have good, decent people surrounding me; my twenties are when I should take risks and find opportunities while I can afford to. I need to relax. I mean, my twenties have already begun fantastically: my birthday was spent on a boat in Saint Tropez with champagne and the most wonderful people a girl could ask for, which I single-handedly organised. I’m now in my second year of university, and while it means the work has become infinitely harder, I’m grateful it’s another year where I get to work towards whatever goal I choose. I need to learn and accept that everyone is on their own timeline, and instead of making lists, just do when the chance arises. Maybe it won’t be the best decade of my life, maybe it is the flirty, thriving thirties, but right now I cannot see that far, so why worry about the future?

Kisses & wish me luck in not overthinking,

Emma xoxo