I don’t know about you, but I’ve taken to wishing my life away. I spend the weekdays wishing for Friday evening to come, I spend my weekend wishing for Sunday afternoon to never come. I spend my life counting down the days till I can move out, despite not earning enough to save to move out, I spend my evenings trying to plan when I’ll be able to next see my boyfriend, let alone have the motions set in place to live with him. I spend my daydreams wishing I’ll come into enough money that I can live off the interest and give up on journalism, and I spend those quite moments before bed wishing my Dad will be OK.
The days of living for the moment are so lost in the past, I get my kicks from making future interior design collages on Pinterest. I’ll get hit by a bus tomorrow, and aside from dying wearing embarrassing greying Primark underwear, I’ll have regretted not enjoying the moments, and putting so much emphasis on the future.
I’m a broken record when I come to giving my opinion on post-university life. But the truth is, no-one can prepare you for the reality shock of real life. It’s that notion, that for the next 50 years, I will be working myself to the ground, and for what? What exactly am I working hard for? I want those Steve Madden heels, and I’ve been pestering my boyfriend for some sort of five-star trip to Hawaii, but in all honesty, I’d give it all up for simple happiness. That sort of inside happiness that people on their death beds always make statements about. Nobody dies wishing they’d spent more hours working, people die wishing they’d spent more time with the people they love. So why is it that we’ve created a society that revolves around money and careers, instead of family and friends?
I like a challenge and to push myself, I’ll be the first to admit it, but that doesn’t mean every waking hour should be about creating some sort of Hannah Gale power empire. I’m looking for some answers, for someone to tell me it gets better from here on out, that slowly and surely I’ll get used to waking up with a face more miserable than Moaning Myrtle herself, that I’ll stop caring about how often I get to see my boyfriend, and it won’t matter that seeing my friends is now saved for special occasions only. But I don’t think they’re going to come. I think the reality is, I’m just going to have to learn how to cope with the sad, sad truths of adulthood.