We’re 29 and, put simply, we feel 69.
Physically, we ache.
Our fingers ache, from the stream of emails that flow from them every day in a bid to climb that ever imposing, ever questioned, ever absent metaphorical career ladder. They get constant use on our commutes flicking from app to app checking Insta stories of people we don’t give a shit about and reading poorly written article after poorly written article about things we now don’t remember.
Then we get home and again they twirl, between the laptop where we try and write a blog or a book or a sitcom, because it’s 2018 and our fingers and us don’t feel worthy if we don’t have a ‘side hustle’. They juggle from laptop to phone where we try and maintain, on average, 12 separate conversations a night on varying messaging platforms whilst holding down an active social media following so that one day we can join the masses and become an influencer.
Our backs ache. From the typing mainly, and the hunching over our phone, and from only having decent TV signal in our rented bedroom so having to watch everything from a half seated, half laying, very back-fucking position.
Everything else aches because the time we don’t spend at work, we spend in the gym, or running, or swimming or doing something marginally painful to try and achieve an ideal body that we’ve seen on aforementioned Insta stories. We’re training for a Tough Mudder or a Marathon because, hey, everyone’s got to do one of those once before you die.
We’re at kettlebell blast and box fit classes, being screamed at by the devil incarnate in lycra four nights a week, to justify the £60 ‘active wear’ we would no longer be seen dead without.
If we’re in neither class we’re hunched over on a pub bench trying to maintain 460 different friendships, 459 of which were founded and remain centred around booze. Meaning, we spend a large part of our time hurting because we still try and drink like we’re 22, can’t and take two days to get over two large glasses of Pinot.
Our nether regions ache because it’s 2018, we’re 29 and hammering our way through Tinder in an attempt to find someone to hang out with semi permanently from now until the day we croak it.
We’re 29, and everything hurts.
Our eyes ache, because everything we look at is on a screen. From binge-watching that Netflix documentary everyone’s been speaking about at work so as not to feel on the outer edge of popular culture, whilst simultaneously trying to organise brunch with some friends, a hen do with some others and potentially seeing your boyfriend once this month on WhatsApp, via email, on new-kid-on-the-irritating-block Instagram Chat all on another white light emitting device before laying awake til 3am wondering why we can’t doze off.
Our conscious aches, because growing older, leaving jobs and making new friends along the way coupled with the fact that we can keep in touch via a thumbs up on Facebook now means there’s more people to catch up with now than there ever has been before.
We’ve got drinks, and bites to eat, and weddings, and birthdays and ‘oh my god look I bought a new filofax’ celebration cocktails booked in from now until our 54th birthday and with every busy weekend comes another moment of us feeling like shit because we’ve had to say no to somebody’s new kitchen opening ceremony or missed out on the VE day party at our Nan’s care home.
We’re getting older, which means our family’s are getting older and out of nowhere you live in a bit of a cycle of utter guilt because the 64 weddings you’re going to this summer means you can’t spend some precious time with your folks who, I’m sorry to say, are just getting a bit old.
Our purses ache, because of all the above costs a pretty penny, coupled with paying inflated rent to a landlord who is almost certainly now retiring to a villa in the Caribbean on our money.
We’re trying to save for a house because society dictates that if you don’t have bricks and mortar of your own by 30, you might as well pack it all in and give up now. Money exits bank accounts in £100 increments on 30th birthday gifts, 30th birthday weekends away, 30th birthday-morning-after-the-weekend-away-ludicrously-expensive brunch and you’re left getting to the middle of the month, earning more than you ever have done, and weighing up if today you replace your shower gel or your hole-ridden pants.
We’re 29, and everything, fucking hurts.