“Not a girl, not yet a woman”. It was the ever inspiring Britney Spears who uttered those immortal lines. And while I’m neither a girl nor a woman, I am for the time being trapped in some sort of adolescent twilight zone.
Twenty-seven. A landmark of sorts, a line in the proverbial sand - a roadblock to twenty something hedonism.
If old age is like a sprawling drunken state, then 27 is it's first shot of jaeger.
Barely has the discarded corpse of twenty-six been laid to rest, before the subtle whispers commence.
Soft at first. Then louder.
Life’s mocking laugh, its quiet derision - Is this all you’ve got to show?
Twenty-seven is a true challenge! The preamble to midlife crisis, driving us to greatness or plunged to the gutter – binging on our own failure.
What makes it so special, so truly terrifying? It’s the in-between stage. You’re not quite examining pension plans or life insurance, but on the other hand you’ve stopped watching “One Tree Hill”.
One minute happy go lucky, the next - deadly serious. Night clubs seem louder, bars more appealing. I watch eager teens down shots and puke in toilets. What’s happened to me? When did I stop vomiting?
"Do you want to go to that foam party?"
"No…no I don’t. I just bought this new shirt you idiot."
Hangovers hurt like hell.
People who wear beanie hats become ridiculous.
You start flossing.
I’m less tolerant of assholes, (myself included). In fact I hate the very sight of my own 27 year old face. I’ve removed all mirrors from my house. Ok, that’s a lie. Crap, that’s something else. Falsehoods slip of my tongue like sweets from a paedophiles pocket.
I keep expecting it to get better. Like this will be my year. I’ll finally figure out what I’m doing, hit a huge creative peak. Its lies, all lies. A mere delaying tactic, conning my poor deluded brain into believing everything is under control.
It couldn’t be further from the truth.
Last night I dreamt of methodically scrubbing the kitchen floor before fantasising of free dental care. These were not the kind of dreams I had at 26.
Twenty-seven is a final year of frolicking, the last chance saloon for career decisions and romance. Maybe my soulmate’s on tinder? I swipe frantically, literally sweating from exertion, my thumbs swollen like giant panda heads.
Friends are suddenly moving in with partners, “so and so” are getting married, siblings are expecting.
And then there’s you. Sitting there. Clueless. The “Peter Andre” of life. Nodding dimly. Grinning.
Alcohol helps. Smile then drink. Or is it drinking then smiling?
Prince Naseem reached this fateful age, just before the first defeat of his career. "I've no doubt in my mind that this year is the big one," he said.
"I'm not frightened but I'm treating this year with maximum respect because 27 is a landmark in a man's life."
Thanks Naseem. No pressure then.
