Ah, that age old question I find myself asking daily; am I in the midst of a quarter-life crisis, or was I just being dramatic when I cried about the muesli I dropped on the kitchen floor?
I hate clichés, they send a shiver down my spine. But one cliché seems so fitting right now: when it rains, it pours.
Although this is factually inaccurate when it comes to weather forecasting, it seems an appropriate metaphor for my life.
In 2017 alone, I’ve kissed goodbye to my job, I’ve been through a breakup, I displaced a vertebra in my back, I was told I might need to move out my flat, I fell over and smashed my phone (costing me a cool coupla-hundred to replace), I lost my colleague’s Oyster card, I lost my credit card, my grandma called me fat, I shrunk my favourite top, my other Grandma called me ‘well-rounded’, and I spontaneously cried in-front of my housemate’s new bit during their third date in our flat. I even started crying when JoJo, Too Little, Too Late came on my Spotify shuffle this morning.
Surely this is more than just a case of bad luck?
It would be so easy to say that my impromptu emotional outbursts are rooted in something deeper – I mean, half of Hackney is on antidepressants to fix the anxiety of searching for the perfect avocado. Wouldn’t it be nice just to take a pill and fix it all, drifting off into a confusing haze, as the suffocating cares I once had dissolve into nothingness.
It might be nice, but it probably won’t stop me dropping my keys down a lift shaft, again.
I’m not really one for list making, because my attention span is in disrepute by point three. But right now, I wish I was one of those people. When I used to get the school bus, the boys would fill their pencil cases with daddy longlegs, then unzip the horrifying contents into the face of an unsuspecting victim, whose only escape was to throw themselves out the clamourous mechanical doors. That’s what my head feels like; claustrophobic and full of flying insects desperately trying to escape through the walls of my cranium.
Yes, I can reluctantly tick replacing my phone off, and put paying for my colleague’s travel behind me. But how do I tick off my fear of unemployment, and worse yet, moving back in with my parents? And how the F do I just realign MY SPINE?
So what do I do from here? Well, first things first, I’m going to see my Reiki master, and after that, I’ll probably sob into another bowl of granola with a side of gin.
Give it to me straight Doc. Am I having a breakdown?
No. You’re having a privileged millennial crisis.
A week ago I was on my way to a free three-course lunch, and as my colleague and I paced down the streets of Soho we huffed in unison, “I’m so hungry”. And there, sat beside us was a homeless man with a half-empty cup of spare change. How many steps until I become that person telling their grieving friend that they totally get it, because they once fell out with their BFF over a Topshop skirt?
If you call me fat one more time, Grandma(s), then this is your doing.
Here I sit writing my blog (and then stand, and then sit again – my poor vertebrae), frantically procrastinating from job applications, wondering when I’ll bump into my ex on Tinder and complaining that my memory foam mattress is damaging my precious spine even more.
You’ll tell me the world is my oyster (you and your clichés!), but you don’t know how hard it is to be me, a millennial.
Images via Giphy.