My 10-year high school reunion was on the weekend. I didn’t go – I’ve lived in a different city to the one I grew up in for the last four years, I know what everyone’s up to these days because I’m an expert Facebook stalker (please, someone endorse me for this skill on LinkedIn) and, most importantly, there probably wasn’t a Romy and Michele-style three-way dance routine featuring a teenage dweeb admirer turned dreamy millionaire, so really, what’s the point?
Last week, I saw photos of my high school crush, who I spent two tragic years trying to impress over MSN with pretentious conversations about Radiohead and poetry, getting married.
At 17, I thought that by 27 I’d have it pretty figured out. Long-term relationship, if not married. With kids. And a house. That I owned. Stable job (to afford the mortgage for the house that I owned). Maybe a book or two under my belt. Definitely a dog.
The reality? I often say jokingly (but not really) that I’m going through my quarter-life crisis. My life is pretty much the Friends theme song, if Friends was about a girl whose love life is less stable than the imaginary child of Bridget Jones and Taylor Swift. I don’t have kids or own property. I’ve only recently started working in a job I love after years of career uncertainty, and make a little extra on the side doing the freelance writing hustle. I’ve got 99 problems and mental health is definitely one. No dog, just a demonic cat I adopted on a whim after being unceremoniously dumped last year.
And honestly, I’ve never been happier.