Disclaimer: To prevent the inevitable backlash from people arguing that I’ve generalised an entire age group, this is what SOME 21 year olds do. As do some 19 year olds. And some 99 year olds.
Recently I’ve been called the following: Childish, Young, Only Just 21, and my personal favourite, Adult-In-Training. Yes. Thank you. I am, obviously, 21 years old. Since we’ve established that fact, let’s examine why this is such an issue .
I go out with the intention of being home at a reasonable hour, yet still, without fail, manage to end up missing one shoe at 4am, crying on my friend’s shoulder about where my life went so horrifically wrong. Why?
Because I’m 21. And that’s what 21 year olds do.
I procrastinate on every single assignment and I make to-the-second revision timetables with no intention of ever sticking to them. Why?
Because I’m 21. And sometimes 21 year olds don’t want to get out of bed. Sometimes they just can’t.
I love you one day, I hate you the next. Why?
Because I’m 21. And 21 year olds are still learning how to love themselves, never-mind someone else. Give me a few years.
I twist my words when I talk to ‘adults’. Why?
Because I’m 21. And your patronising look coupled with your meek attempt at a sympathetic smile is massively off putting. You were all 21 once. Give us a break.
I have nightmares about my £27,000 uni fees. Why?
Because I’m 21. And the Government totally screwed me over.
I book 3 holidays when I really, really don’t want to revise. Why?
Because I want to believe there’s something else out there other than revision, exams, coursework, and education-induced misery.
FYI: There is. And it’s great. Do it.
I order wine instead of tequila. Why?
Because prospective employers don’t take to salt and lemon all that well. Nor does my liver. Oh, and especially the taxi floor. (Sorry, 760760. My 19th Birthday wasn’t a great one, was it?)
Despite this, I still do a tequila shot or two. Why?
Because I’m Only Just 21. And I’m still not ready to let go of my teenage years. Or tequila.
I eat Dominos and immediately complain that I’m fat. On Twitter. On Tumblr. On the train to the poor unwilling participant of my rambled conversation. Why?
Because I’m 21. And I genuinely do believe that I’m fat sometimes. Roll with it, I’ll have bigger things to worry about next year. Just hopefully not my stomach. Hopefully my boobs.
I cry at Grey’s Anatomy on a weekly basis. Why?
Because I’m 21. And they write bloody good story lines. And everyone needs a good cry every now and again, I just happen to do it at the hand of fictional characters.
I’m in a long-term love affair with London. Why?
Because I’m 21. Because I am. Because it’s home. Because you can lose yourself within 10 minutes of being there and forget that your own reality exists.
I worry about what people think of me, despite every Tom, Dick, and Harry telling me not to. Why?
Because I’m 21. I have yet to forge a career or marry the person I love, amongst many other things. It still matters to me what people think. It may always do, but right now it directly concerns my future. Please don’t tell me otherwise.
I spend hours perfecting my makeup, only to sneeze at the last minute and cause a Marilyn Manson-esque picture all over my face. Why?
Because I’m a human. And humans sneeze.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go and do all of the above while simultaneously taking pride in my actions.* Why?
Because I’m 21. And I’m not done being 21 yet.
*Apart from the tequila. That’s a lie, Mum.