Late Twenties Panic Syndrome

This week I turned twenty seven, and it was just like every other. Has anybody ever really felt another year older because the clock struck twelve? I detest anybody that says they do, or that they felt grown up. Turning twenty five was one of those moments for me, I “felt” different, more serious. I think the only three sentences I uttered all year were, “yes those three kebabs are for me”, “what time do you stop serving?” and, “I’m twenty five now, d’ya know what I mean.” It was also the year that I binged myself on whatever takeaway I could get, and danced drunkenly in the alleyway of my house after every night out for roughly an hour before I thought, enough is enough now David. So you’d be right in thinking that I hadn’t actually grown up at all, but I still loved telling everybody that walked past that I was twenty five now, and very serious.

I don’t feel the same at twenty seven. I have always been excited to get to thirty, I tell people that’s when I’m going to peak for sure. I don’t really have a choice though, if I don’t peak at thirty then what the fuck were the past twenty nine years for? The problem I now face is that thirty is getting closer and I am nowhere near peaking. I can’t stop wondering what I should do next, and what a twenty seven year old is “supposed” to be doing. I know there isn’t an answer for this, and it’s a very Carrie Bradshaw thing to wonder, but I genuinely can’t help but think about it. I think it would be pretty fucking stupid of me to think that I could own property now. Not unless every member of my family died and left me money to do so. My mum died and I’m not sure any of the money that was left to me will actually get to me for that purpose, but by the time it does, the average price of a house will be three virgin souls, a year of field work and £600,000 in cash. But I do want my own place, I want to be able to have my own space to do whatever I want in. To hammer fifteen nails into the wall just because I can do it without worrying my landlord will take my whole deposit and an extra months rent from me. I want to be able to paint the walls red and Jackson Pollock them on a late Sunday night because why the fuck wouldn’t I do this? But I can’t. Me and my late twenties self will probably never be able to do either of these things, because rent is extortionate and the guillotine has been outlawed.

Another thing I thought I would have done by now is to have been in a relationship. I wouldn’t necessarily say that I’ve failed at finding love, I have found it many times and in many places. It just hasn’t found me yet. I know it will eventually, but I think it’s about time this came back to me. All of my friends, or most anyway, have managed to find some intimacy and romance in their lives, and I’m left wondering when it will be my turn to be asked to dance. Maybe love isn’t meant for people like me. Maybe it would help if I wasn’t so terrified of being touched, terrified of being hurt. Maybe if I hadn’t spent my entire early twenties hating myself so entirely, that meeting anybody new was as excruciating as standing naked on a stage in front of the northern hemisphere. One good thing I have actually noticed about my late twenties is how much of a shit I don’t give about my body anymore. I don’t hate it like I used to, the hate has changed, it’s grown into something of a buddy of mine. Sure, I wish I didn’t have to solely shop online using fast fashion brands, and I wish I didn’t sleep with each tit in an arm-lock , but it’s my body and it belongs to me. I know how it works and how it walks. I know how it speaks and I know all of it’s flaws. And I also know that I’m sick of hiding it from all of you. Don’t worry, the crop top isn’t on it’s way just yet, but I would actually wear it now. Twenty two year old me wouldn’t have done that. And if my body is an issue for you, then the only finger you’ll get from me, is the middle one.

One last thing I’ve noticed about being twenty seven is that it’s time to go. One lesson I desperately need to learn is when to leave the party, and I think the bell just rang. I can’t thank Manchester enough for what it has given me, but my love is changing. I don’t want to leave, I love my friends and I have strong roots built into the concrete of my city, but I think it might be time for a break. Being single at twenty seven opens many doors for me. I had the chance to leave before, to start anew in an exciting town where I could spend my free moments with my feet in the sea. I could wander the cobbled streets and meet other creatives and live on a diet of nothing but fish and chips and Mr Whippy ice creams. I stayed for a boy who didn’t have the guts to love me, and I regret it every day. A friend said something to me today, maybe in passing, that struck me on a much deeper level than I think she intended. “If you stayed in Manchester for him, you should move to Brighton for yourself.”

Maybe that’s what the late twenties are for, yourself. Every decision, every act of radical self acceptance, they are for nobody else but me. I’m not a fan of compromise, and why would I be? My whole experience as a twenty-something has been about other people and trying to love people so hard that it breaks their walls and they begin to love me back. Well, no more I say. I have a foundation for the building of myself now. Thick layers of concrete built with sellotape and glue which I have used to build myself up again after each failure. Now I need to move on, find myself in a new environment with new cobbles to straddle over, new avenues of opportunity, maybe even somebody to love me.

I’ve coined the phrase late twenties panic syndrome, because every day is a panic. A panic that I’m not reaching my full potential, a panic that I’ll be alone forever, a panic that I’m growing older by the second and I haven’t done anything important and probably never will. I will continue to panic and I will continue to try and maybe, that’s just what your late twenties are for.