Spinning into My Quarter Life Crisis

Recently I was invited by my friend Lucy to her younger sisters' 21st birthday party. I gag for a bit of a do and a dance floor and seeing as it was a free bar, it was clearly a no brainer (don't judge me, all you fuckers think that too). Little did I know I was to leave the following day feeling far more aware about my upcoming 25th than when I entered.

Admittedly, this is partly due to the fact Lucy and I have known each other since the tiny age of 3 so with every celebration there's a 'fuck has it really been that long' sideways glance at each other followed by a wide eyed, gulp of our drinks. The difference between Lucy and I is that she's tits deep in a relationship, 7 years kinda deep, so as the wedding and popping ovaries chat begins to frequent our social situations I feel more for her than my single ass. No pressure Luce.

Whilst writing this I decided to try and find the oldest photo of Lucy and I together. Well folks, this is it, our nursery nativity play. You see that miserable af donkey in the corner? Ladies and Gents, I give you Lucy Peel.

Whilst writing this I decided to try and find the oldest photo of Lucy and I together. Well folks, this is it, our nursery nativity play. You see that miserable af donkey in the corner? Ladies and Gents, I give you Lucy Peel.

Whilst the number of engagement and wedding pics are clearly on the rise I think we are comfortably sitting just before the time of bi-weekly blow up dicks, constantly forking out for new wedding outfits and getting it horribly wrong in front of our friends nearest and dearest. Otherwise known as wedding season, it's very much on the horizon. Don't get me wrong, I love a party especially ones with blow up dicks (and free bars) but wedding season in itself incites an eye roll or two as it only adds to everyone's quarter life crisis panic. Yes you're single and no you're not going to die. Next.

So, back to the party. Swimming through the sea of baby faced students I fixed myself with a glass of fizz and began the formalities that occur within the initial sober moments of any do. The hellos, the small talk and the location of the seating plan. Apparently I needed to be slapped across the face with a big old handful of adult as it was titled 'Taxpayers Table'. Fantastic.

You know in Bridesmaids when Helen gives Lillian the trip to Paris at which point Annie closes her eyes and goes 'Are you fucking kidding me?'. I did that. 

One observation in particular was that 'The Kids' (yes I found myself referring to them as this) were serving up a slightly different look to us more mature ladies. Most noticeably, we were all in dresses past the knee. Which by the way, have you tried dancing in a long skirt? It's weird as fuck. Perhaps this is due to the kind of shapes I throw. Perhaps there is still some young in me yet...

Oh no wait. Hold the bloody phone, just before I get comfortable with that thought, here's another little curve ball. So remember I said Lucy and I had known each other for years? 22 years to be exact. Well. That's actually longer than any of those little fuckbags at the party had been alive. Again. Eye contact, consume beverage. With all of this said, we out danced The Kids well into the morning only to retire because dickhead over here went over on her ankle. Standard.

Whilst generally speaking I am not too bothered about turning 25, it's moments like my younger brother not knowing what a Walkman is, getting my smear test letter through the post (fun) and finding myself TWO weekends in a row bopping along to the 10 O'clock news tune on a Friday night (I was not alone, Katie was doing this also) that made me think fuck, I'm getting older fast and I most definitely do not have my life together. But then again, what even is having your life together? I consider getting round to waxing my moustache a successful evening of personal admin. This is a win. This might not be the case with normal people. Who knows. 

Seriously though...the fucking Taxpayers Table?!