I recently moved house from a middle-of-nowhere urban wasteland to a 2-minute walk from the local bar district. The British love their booze and given that most of my social circle has worked in a bar at some point in their life, there hasn’t been a shortage of “fancy a pint?” texts.
One night I was sitting in Wetherspoons with friends and we were talking about getting older. I said, ‘It always annoyed me how society expects you to do certain things in a certain order by a certain age… go to uni, get a job, get married, buy a house, have kids.’
Emily said, ‘And everyone feels sorry for you if you haven’t done that… even if you don’t want to do that.’
Her words reminded me of a time an ex said, ‘Congratulations, you now have the party lifestyle you’ve always wanted’ like it was an insult. Like now I was no longer eighteen, I should have settled down to a lifetime of monotony.
The truth is, yes I am a party girl and yes I like going out. I like the dissonance of a packed bar, I like the semi-euphoric feeling of occasion, I like the tipsy wine haze. The moment I give that up for slumping on the sofa in front of “crap telly” (seriously, if you say those words with a humble sense of pride then just kill yourself), I’ve let myself down as a person. I would have given up doing what I like for a calm, monotonous, sensible life because society thinks I should take up gardening or baking or some other wholesome bullshit that women who post memes about how being knee-deep in used nappies is the hardest job in the world do.
I’ll take the partying, thanks, especially given that I can bake the best chocolate brownies on the planet already. And instead of judging me, why don’t you judge yourself for being dead inside.