I thought that, at 23, I’d be married to my teenage crush and that we’d be living in our own house with little versions of us running about causing havoc.
In reality, at 23, I’m drunk texting my teenage crush at 3am to tell her that I love her. We’re friends, it’s fine, she obviously thinks it’s platonic…
I was wrong about adult life. I had visions of me effortlessly drifting through it, ticking off adult goals on the daily.
Adult life is me eating a “funsize” bag of popcorn for breakfast in the car on the way to see my therapist.
Adult life is me updating my union membership to premium even though I don’t know what it includes and it costs £10 more a month.
Adult life is me trying to find songs I like for my goddaughter to dance to that don’t involve words like “fuck”, “pussy” and “bitch”.
Adult life is painting pottery on my day off when I’m hungover and trying not to vomit up 5 pints of cider.
Adult life is getting excited when my Tesco vouchers come through and then spending them on Pokémon cards. Pokémon cards for me. That I collect. At 23.
Is this what life is like at 30? Does Christmas ever become dull? Will I spend my pension money on cat toys for the cats that they don’t even play with?
Is anyone actually an adult?
From the outside I think I seem fairly mature and like I’ve got my shit together. I have a responsible job and people trust me with their children. Underneath that am I just an 8 year old who wants to nap, eat pizza and play in the snow? Yes. I’m not an adult. I’m a fraud.