by Emma Figg
Being a twenty-something is really, really hard.
The indecision, the frailty, the stagnation is harder than I ever expected. I saw myself skipping through my twenties; tanned, somehow pulling off culottes, with braided hair, playing a ukulele on a beach and being generally footloose.
Literally – I planned to shun footwear altogether and just breeze barefoot through my sun kissed, sandy twenties like a boss.
But I’m finding it really hard. And I’ve been quiet for too long about this, out of fear of sounding ungrateful. But screw it.
It’s impossible to know what the hell to do at this point in life (am I right or am I right Generation Xers?) The nice hand-drawn map of the education system, or battered copy of ‘The Guide to Adulting: As Written by Your Parents’ is ripped from your hands. You stand bewildered at a junction of a hundred paths, veering off into the mists of the Snow White-style evil forest that is Adulthood. In the trees gather the unseen, ‘wiser’ Treefolk. Not called Babyboomers for nothin’ – there they hide, blasting and braying at you and you’re stood there shrugging, in nothing but your pants.
And off you’re supposed to trot merrily, armed with your life’s resources in a sweaty Tesco’s carrier bag clutched in your clammy hands. The Grand Contents of which amount to: a tea-stained CV you’ve agonised for hours over, a handful of cash your parents have given you and a cheese sandwich. It’s absolutely fucking terrifying.
I just about had a plan. Almost. I’d gathered my nuts (in both senses of the word) and was just about to take my first few tentative steps down one of the paths I’d picked at random and now this. A political earthquake shakes the land and the path is rendered un-passable. My Tesco bag splits open and the cheese sandwich falls out, my sack of gold coins scatters. The voices are louder and I’ve shrunk 2 foot in height.
Time for a bit of change methinks, fellow younglings. This ridiculous impasse of disregard vs. compliance has to stop. We’re the grown-ups now. So let’s gather our collective nuts, our pitchforks and torches and burn this mother fucking forest to the ground.
Emma Figg | Carpe Diem
Emma is a twenty-something female. Which makes her feel stuff that she needs to write down. Lena Dunham is her spirit animal. As is lasagne.