I’m 26 and counting. I’m counting the days until payday (four) and the charges on my overdraft (£40). I’m counting the years I have to reach peak career (six? five?), and how many bottles of wine I drank last week (questionable). I’m counting friends who have mortgages, friends who have it all and how many times I’ve been asked if I’ve watched Breaking Bad (don’t even). I’m counting Facebook likes, retweets, how many knickers I have left until I really have to do some washing - and how many years it will be until I finally grow up. Because, as yet, it doesn’t seem to be happening. At all.
I’ve got myself a job, of course. And - don’t hate me - it’s actually what I set out to do. I’ve got a boyfriend too. I don’t live in a cardboard box (not quite, anyway) and once I successfully out-stared Jeremy Paxman when we were both walking past Tottenham Court Road tube station. Things aren’t so bad. So why the hell haven’t I got my shit together?
For instance I don’t think I’ve ever been on time for anything. My mum has taken to sending me a card within a card to London for me to sign and post (which I inevitably forget to do) on family birthdays. I’ve never gone viral - I don’t know that I’d want to, but still. It seems like something I should be doing. I’m a feminist, but I don’t know if I’m feminist enough. I look at friends who are excelling beyond their years in their careers, eating healthily, reaching milestones, living abroad and are ‘only doing five festivals this year’ and feel despondent - I don’t even like avocados yet. Surely that, at least, should have changed by now?
So this weekly column is for everyone else who, like me, eats chicken nuggets in bed at 2am on a Tuesday and has never done a downward facing dog. For everyone who doesn’t quite know where they’re going or, more importantly, if it would be lame to Instagram it if they get there. And for everyone who is also 20something and counting…