I am all over the place. Some days I am luvin lyf 2k17, and others I open a Wagon Wheel slightly too vigorously, it drops on the floor, and tears prickle my eyes. There is literally no in between.
The last couple of months have been first world difficult. I left the career I dedicated my early twenties to. Plus everyone is betrothed, while I’m 95% sure the last guy I dated ended it because I fell asleep while we were watching Angels & Demons (which, in my defence, is boring AF). So yes, this #survivor is expecting her slot on The Ellen DeGeneres Show very soon.
Being an adult is a lot trickier than I thought it would be, but there are a few things that make me feel (deluded or otherwise) like I ever-so-slightly have my shit together:
- Joining the gym for the 6786th time when there is not a chance in bollocks I will actually go
As I enter my direct debit details on the Pure Gym website, I feel a sense of elation. This is it. I am going to rid myself of the belly fat that peers over my jeans like a meerkat checking for predators. I am going to be scouted for Britain’s Next Top Model. I am going to have a sculpture of my insanely toned abs installed in the National Art Gallery.
Then it rains. Or I come on my period. Or I leave work five minutes later than usual. And I end up paying £18.99 a month for Pure Gym to send me guilt-trip texts reminding me that I haven’t hauled my lazy ass to the gym for 27 years. “Just fuck off,” I mumble, swiping off the message with my pizza-greased fingers, “I’ll go tomorrow.” *
*This is a lie.
- Ordering stuff I can’t afford off the internet
There are seven words that send a shiver of delight down my spine. A thrill so electric I can barely contain myself.
“There’s a parcel for you in reception.”
God, I love it. The anticipation whilst flouncing down the stairs, the cradling the package to my chest like a little baby, the grand reveal once I’ve scuttled into my bedroom. Granted, nine times out of ten it is absolute tat and being sent back, but still.
- Being smooth
There is nothing relaxing about having hair ripped from your skin. Let’s just get that straight. But there is also nothing relaxing about being late for work because all of your pants are in the wash and you don’t have tights thick enough to conceal your hairy legs. So a monthly wax is an excellent, if rather expensive, investment. Plus to put a few myths to rest: it does NOT take off your skin, it does NOT grow back thicker, you DO have to peel apart your ass cheeks like Moses and the Red Sea if you want your bum doing as well.
- Netflix binges
I’m not talking a li’l Pretty Little Liars marathon; I’m talking a sunlight-what-is-that-dear-God-I-stink odyssey. I never feel as enlightened as when I have spent all weekend cocooned in my duvet, forfeiting exercise and basic hygiene to broaden my mind with documentaries about death row prisoners and people who are addicted to eating bubble wrap.
I am an emotional clam. But just because I don’t always say much, it doesn’t mean I don’t have a lot going on in my head. Ultimately, all of that drivel needs an outlet. So welcome to my blog.