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. I thought the best way to hide my social awkwardness was to go to as many raging (what felt like “raging” at the time) house parties as I could, even though I would just melt into the background because I was so shy. Instead, I would feel like the only one not having fun, and wonder even more what the hell was wrong with me? I would also keep setting new standards for myself. I would say that everything would be okay if I got into all the top universities. Everything would be okay if that one boy in my economics class liked me back. Everything would be okay if I were skinny and my acne cleared up and if I actually grew into my features (basically, I would wish my nose at least looked like it belonged on my face). What actually happened was that I did get accepted into four of the five universities I applied to, but I failed to meet my expected grades. I never found the courage to tell this boy I liked him (maybe for the best in order to preserve our friendship). I never felt skinny enough, or pretty enough or that my nose looked somewhat decent on my face.
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. My mum used to call me a little worrier/warrior, because I was incredibly feisty and loud, but also an insane over-thinker. By the way, she came up with that nickname when I was seven. I am my own worst enemy. I am that person who compares themselves not only to their family and friends, but to people online, the people I think have the life I want (despite the path I want seeming to change every thirty minutes), and to my future self, who will ultimately hate her life because of the decisions I’m making now. 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 as much as I love 13 Going on 30 and Sex and the City, I don’t want to have to wait until I’m 30 for everything to feel like it’s in the right place or to at least have some of the things I want. I want to do it all now. I want to know what I’m supposed to be and doing now, so I can have a clear path to work toward. I couldn’t wait for people to stop telling me “wow, you’re so mature for your age” or “I thought you were older” I want to fit in. I thought that when I’m twenty, finally, I’ll be a grown-up. No. Just… no.
Yes, entering my twenties is a major milestone, 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 shouldn’t be “mature for my age”, 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”. Because what is normal anyway? I don’t mean to become all philosophical, but let’s face it, “normal” for some 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. 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 my goal in life shouldn’t be to be normal, it should be to not be bored. Indeed, maybe I am average, maybe I’m not talented at much. It’s a very strange and slightly concerning opinion to have of yourself, but hear me out. 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. Because I deserve to dream big and say yes to anything and everything I want if I have the opportunity. I’ve come to realise that the acceptance of one’s ordinality is not good enough. It’s not good enough to be normal.
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. 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
