My college housemate and I went out for brunch last week. Since I moved out, we have nervous-but-excitedly entered a new phase of our friendship in which we actually have to arrange to spend time with one another. A strange concept for us both.
We spent the entire meal saying things like: would you look at us! What are we like? How times have changed! We revelled in our act of put-togetherness, in our chameleonic ability to blend into this sea of young adults and families doing something so enjoyably sensible as a late, overpriced breakfast.
It was only two years ago that we were stealing toilet rolls from the bathrooms in college and now here we were, older and wiser, prepared to leave this fine establishment’s – notably higher ply – roll in its place. We smugly sipped our mint- and lime-infused water and when the bill arrived we asked, with a pop of the eyebrow, “what’s the damage?”, like two middle-aged men.
We even pretended to have a fight over who would pay the bill, as if we wouldn’t be Revolut-ing whoever was owed as soon as we were home. Because that’s the kind of thing adults do, right? Right?
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There has been a lot of this recently: a distinct shift away from the free-falling, serendipity of our early 20s, and towards some formless idea of what adulthood “should” look like. As we enter our mid-20s, we suddenly do things like go for brunches that we cannot afford and drives with no destination, and remark on things like homeware and good weather (before quickly, and with increasing terror, asking “where did that come from?”).
The shift is uncanny: though it is imperceptible and insignificant to the outside world, it feels so blatant, sometimes even fraudulent, on the inside. My friends and I baulk at our “I hope this finds you well” emails and laugh at the sight of each other in carefully selected blouses and sensible shoes, lanyards flipping in the wind.
It is in the raw novelty of it all – of being taken into the fold, of being taken seriously – that adulthood appears so absurd. It still feels like we have raided our parent’s wardrobes to play dress up, except now we own the clothes and, as mentioned, there are just So. Many. Blouses.
Other ‘real’ adults reassure you that this is, in fact, normal and that a lot of adulthood is simply posturing the right way and pretending to care about coffees and diaries in such serious terms
I recently met up with some friends during a lunch break from their fabled “proper jobs”. They arrived down in office garb, blouses and lanyards galore, for a speedy sandwich. As we began talking about their days, someone had the gall to “circle back” to the top of the conversation. We screeched at her audacity, dispelling the spectre of “helicopter views” and “blue-sky thinking” that suddenly loomed. We are not quite at the stage of silently absorbing corporate speak into our colloquial vocabulary, but I fear it is only inevitable. I swear I heard someone say “all the best” as we parted ways.
What is so funny is the doubleness of it all; the ghosts of our very recent younger selves haunt any current attempt at maturity. The very people who once deemed four or five cups of coffee a day merely sociable, now say things like “sure I couldn’t, my nerves would be wrecked” at the suggestion of a post-lunch brew. People who spent their college days skillfully avoiding lectures are now slaves to their Google Calendar and unironically say that they’ll “pencil you in”. We lived in each other’s pockets only a year ago and now we flick through diaries as if we aren’t passing over entire months in search of a date where we might actually all be free.
Other “real” adults reassure you that this is, in fact, normal and that a lot of adulthood is simply posturing the right way and pretending to care about coffees and diaries in such serious terms. “Fake it ‘till you make it,” they advise with a laugh and a shrug of the shoulders. But I wonder how it could ever stop seeming so absurd, so silly. Do we just gradually submit to the charade of it all? Should we be reassured that we will eventually make it through the performance without breaking character?
For now, at least, my friends and I cannot earnestly care about brunches, or good weather or, God forbid, those bloody blouses. Corporate speak still jars against our silliness and no one gets away with the casual mention of their calendar. But a friend made me laugh and worry recently when she pointed out that “I used to not understand what my parents’ jobs were but now I don’t understand my friends’ jobs”. I cackled and cringed in recognition. “My friend in PR?,” she said, “gun to my head, I don’t understand what she does but it’s too late to ask”. Alas, perhaps the faking has already commenced.
When my old housemate and I left the cafe after finishing our eminently sophisticated brunch last week, a mother directed her child to “move out of the lady’s way”. We looked around for the lady in question before our eyes fell upon one another. We guffawed, slightly horrified, before slyly pointing at one one another to assign the title of The Lady. We laughed before making our way home, stopping at the shop en route of course: we both had toilet roll to buy.