Posted by Sophie Westrope on July 16, 2014 · Leave a Comment
And there I was mindlessly sneaking another chocolate button from the packet I’d hidden badly behind the telephone on my desk and it hit me: I have no idea what I’m doing with my life.
I’m twenty-two years old and I always imagined I would have my ducks in a row by this point. Ten-year-old Sophie imagined a nice house, perhaps a husband, the first little sprog brewing in my babybox, a decent career underway. But the cold harsh reality of grown up life is the box room in my parent’s house, no man on the scene, a depressingly long working week in a meaningless job and an empty uterus.
And that’s okay, right? I’m still young. I still have time to figure this shit out, surely? “Have fun,” they say. “Enjoy it while your joints don’t ache.” But some boring sensible part of my brain is yelling at me to start behaving like an adult. ‘Move out. Get a decent paid job in your chosen vocation. Find a suitor. Use your eggs.’
Fuck off, brain, you bossy bitch. Maybe the only eggs I want to use are those going off in a carton in the fridge. Perhaps I slightly enjoy the self-loathing of receptionist duties if my colleagues can make me laugh hourly and maybe I’m just quite alright being a one woman band for the timebeing.
And I’m learning that this is all just fine. And I should tell my mind to keep schtum more often.
