An 'Early-Twenties' Crisis

Last night I dreamt that I was dating an alligator, that lived inside another alligator, that was preparing to take over the rest of the world. I was swimming through thick black slime to find the man/reptile (complete with reptile face), scantily clad in black leather (me, not him,) while the theme tune to James Bond’s ‘Golden Eye’ played mysteriously in the background.

 

What.The.Fuck.

 

Stage two and I found myself on a beach in a harness about to propel myself on a zip wire towards one of those machines you find chavs using on a night out (the punch bag ones – sorry if you’re guilty) in which I had to whack with my fist upon arrival in my harness. There was a waiting audience who were terribly excited (think ‘cage fighting’ excitement) and gun shots going through the air behind me, reminding me of a highly dangerous Takeshi’s Castle.

 

I wasn’t even scared, nor in the slightest bit even mildly confused. In fact, I woke up feeling faintly aroused.

 

I’m never going to drink a pint of orange juice before bed, ever again.

 

The conclusion (other than the one above concerning orange juice, of course) is relatively simple to decide, but far more complex to correct. You, like many others, have found yourself in an early twenties crisis.

 

The tale-tell signs are as follows:

Ludicrous dreams in which you find yourself with a greater purpose are highly relevant. Anything involving death, survival, group orgies, laser guns, rooms with endless doors, revisiting old locations (like the vending machine with vegetables in it, too many choices) children (gasp - heaven forbid the C word)…

 

You make a plan to make a plan, putting the plan to make the plan in your diary just to help you feel as though you are beginning to come to terms with the everyday process of being alive which is… your life.

 

You then proceed to cross out the plan to make the plan – fuck plans, who needs a plan, why do you need a plan, what good is a plan, you are only young, you only live once, who says you have to have a plan, who wants to plan, a plan isn’t going to solve anything? Is it?

 

Is it? And what were we even planning anyway?

 

You then decide you need to re-think. “I need a plan,” you say. Oh fuck this.

 

Are you old or are you young, are you old or are you young? And then you realise you have forgotten how old you really are, and answer “18” when you get asked for your ID whilst buying alcohol to numb the pain of your ageing heart.

 

At least you got ID’d. Right? Right?!

 

The nature of being indecisive is in itself a symptom. Be warned! 

 

Oh who gives a shit?! Lets just go travelling! Let’s see the world! Your heart lifts with joy at the youthful possibilities raging through your loins, and then you think:

 

Fuck. I need some money. Hmmm. “Let’s make a plan.”

 

Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Career or travel career or travel career or travel career or travel?! Mundane job just to get buy, save a bit, then leave? Hmmmm. House or car? Literally considering a mortgage. I wish. What do I tell the neighbours my plans are? Everyone needs a witty reply. Just in case they care. Chances are they won’t. You are, after all, highly insignificant in the greater scheme of things. Oh. Bloody brilliant.

 

And we’ve all been bought up to believe ‘we can do anything, we can.’ Well then. Shouldn’t have given us so much bloody choice. Now we’re doing nothing because we don’t want to loose out on something.

 

They should have told us to be grateful.

 

Your Grandmother sounds shocked when you play the travelling card ‘what are you going to do to earn money out there, then?’ You reply ‘I haven’t thought.’ But you have thought. You have thought long and hard. She didn’t slave away at her job bringing up your mother just so that you could become a bar girl. Did she?

 

And so what if she did? What’s wrong with a bar girl job? And hey… they might not even have you anyway? Fuck.

 

You’re still secretly hoping to become an underwear model. Holding out. Dreaming the dream. Just. Got. To loose. Some weight.

 

Gotta do it before you’re twenty five though. Models are like Olympians. Get in their early before they sack you off to the slaughter house.

                                                            

Your grandfather is worse at your travelling plans (still too soon to suggest the model dream) – ‘what the fuck do you want to go there for? Come back in a bloody body bag you will, limbs in a different black bin liner. You should be grateful.’ The grateful comment is now resented. ‘Grandad’, you reply, ‘I’m only going up to London for the day.’

 

Jesus Christ. Thank God you aren’t that old. Yet.

 

So you went to the Doctors the other day and she told you that you’d put on weight. Shaking, you stepped up to those scales. The needle swung, a result of the boulder that had just been dropped unceremoniously onto its little innocent face. “Oh!” replied the Doctor, beaming. “My, you have put on weight.”

 

I have never seen someone so deliriously happy to deliver such uncomfortably bad news. Fat. Bitch.

 

So that was it then. Underwear model plans so rudely scuppered. It was that bloody contraceptive pill wasn’t it? Wasn’t it? It can’t. Have been. Those kebabs.

 

So you come off the pill. Well… something needs to change doesn’t it?

 

To men out there, if you are struggling to understand the difference that this little tiny lump of hormones can make… You know when Ron in Harry Potter has to wear the Horcrux round his neck, and when he does so he turns into a raging little shit demon out to destroy all friendly relationships he has with anything and anyone? Yeah. Well that’s the contraceptive pill. And every time your girlfriend is taking it she is swallowing a little part of Voldermort’s soul. How is that for celibacy?

 

Get a new piercing. Why the fuck not? You only live once?

 

Precisely. You only live once. You can’t fuck it up. But what if?

 

Questions questions questions.

 

And what if I don’t even want to go travelling? Sorry if I’m uncool, and settled, and I’m boring, because like, yar, I don’t want to go travelling, and oh my gosh, I haven’t seen the pyramids, and, oh my God, I’m so poor, I’ve never been to Thailand,

Like… ‘oh my God, please tell me you’ve been to Thailand,’

‘Erm… no I’ve never been to Thailand…’

‘Like, oh my God you’ve never been to Thailand?’

‘Like, no I’ve never been to Thailand,’

‘Like… never?’

‘Like… never.’

‘Like… you don’t want to go?’

‘Like. I’m not fussed.’

‘Like. Seriously. What the fuck are you doing with your life?’

‘Like. Seriously. Fuck off. And say ‘like’ one more time. I will literally punch you. In the mouth.’

 

Whatever you do. Don’t. Get married. In Vegas.

 

When your friend tells you she’s just got engaged everyone is smiling and patting her on the back and hugging and ‘like, seriously, that’s wonderful news, beautiful, wonderful,’ and your friends smiles all look kind of weird, and when you see your face in the mirror you realise that your smile looks equally kind of weird, and the rest of you look uneasily around at one another in turn and you’re smiling and you’re thinking ‘when the fuck do I admit that this has all just got a little bit out of hand?!?!’

 

Seriously?

 

Perhaps its time to make a plan?!