The difficulty with being ambitious, is that nothing is ever good enough until it is perfect.
I’ve set myself such wildly over-the-top goals that there are days when I feel like a hopeless cause, miles off track and destined for a lifetime of disappointments, because I can never just accept the moment the way it is.
Today I’m dwelling in my own self pity because I want a job that pays me a reasonable amount (I’m talking just more than minimal wage), I want to live with my boyfriend, and I want a winning body. I’ve become obsessed with swimming and blogging because they are the only ways I can see of achieving anything without having to rely on anyone else. The economy is rather distressingly crumbling down around us that I feel as if i’m wasting time trying to have this dream career. Would it be simpler to move somewhere cheap, work in a call centre, but at least be able to afford to be with my boyfriend?
This generation is plagued with the mantra that women can do anything, and with all the freedom and prospects that came with that, also came an overwhelming sense of pressure. If we can’t do everything then it feels as though we’re labelled as failures. Would it have been easier to leave school with my healthy sized handful of GCSE’s in tow, got myself a little local job to tide me over whilst I prepared my wedding and tried to get pregnant? Should I right now, instead of blogging, me preparing a roast for my family of four, sorting out the school uniforms and pe kits for tomorrow, whilst giving the house a good hoover?
There’s nothing wrong with the housewife lifestyle, I can’t wait to get there in ten years time, but that’s the point, this is supposed to be the time I grow as a person and get all those life experiences out-of-the-way. I’m supposed to spend my week networking at work-related events whilst drinking white wine spritzers, working myself to a size 8 in the gym, and barely finding time to keep my apartment tidy. My weekends should be about restaurants and bars as a couple – with other couples, teamed with lazy Sundays in bed and Saturday strolls around time for new treats for myself. We should be booking long weekends in New York, and spending the summer in Italy.
Maybe this is all just my heavy impatience coming through, but life is not quite how I envisaged it would be when I left school five and a half years ago. I want to be a young professional in my Twenties, and not the underpaid teenager living at home, susceptible to tantrums when things don’t go to plan.