Sometimes I shock myself that I’m an adult. Like, I sit here in my flat having just stacked the dishwasher and think ‘wow, Person C, you’re winning at life right now. Check you out being on top of the dirty dishes and tidying your home’ but then, I stop. The momentary jubilation subsides and I realise I’m a 31 year-old. Of course I should be on top of the dirty dishes. What is wrong with me thinking that is winning at life? Well, that moment has just happened. I’ve stacked the dishwasher, cleaned the recycling (yes, recycling needs cleaning people) and sat surveying my ‘monumental’ efforts. Then I realised, I’m sat in a tracksuit, with greasy hair, my elephant teddy and the remains of a gelato pot and its spoon. Winning at adulting doesn’t look like this. 2 glasses of wine shouldn’t have made me tipsy. Love Island catch up for 2 days also adds to that feeling that I’ve missed the correct turning in life and now I’m stuck in the remedial class. Am I out looking classy and laughing with friends in a trendy beer garden? Have I popped into the latest must see art collection? Have I done a triathlon or spinning tournament? Nope. I’ve pretty much sat here, on the sofa (which I’ve just noticed has a noticeable sag where my backside is normally positioned) eating crap and watching Love island whilst my cats go through a mixture of emotions from love (sat in my lap) or indifference (asleep in the spare room). My greatest achievement this weekend? The gelato company, that I have just scoffed a tub of, has replied to me on Instagram. #winning. I’ve painted my nails but let’s be honest, they look like I’ve let a child loose with them so that’s hardly the ‘cool’, ‘classy’ and ‘sophisticated’ image I was going for.
Friend ML has told me that, not only getting promotion in December, next year she’s going for the next promotion. To add to this, her boyfriend is likely to be proposing before Q4 2017 and they are looking to buy a house. Me? I’m sat here with a cuddly toy and my 2 cats for company having missed the majority of my work year, single and although I have a flat, I’m needing to move to an interest only mortgage. Wow man, I really did take a wrong turn a while back hey. I know, I know. Comparing myself to others is a futile exercise but… and yes, there is a but. Show me someone who doesn’t compare themselves. I’ve a typical A type personality. I want EVERYTHING to be perfect. Anything that I deem not ‘perfect’ causes me to shut down. So, yes, watching all my friends succeed in all aspects of life is amazing. I’m genuinely very happy for them but oh, my gosh, when can I succeed?
I’ve over eaten. At some point during that outpouring of frustration, Madam Limp-a-lot got up and hopped to the freezer and larder. Chocolates were consumed, and as per above, so to was the remaining pistachio gelato. Brilliant Person C, this is exactly how you’re going to slim down. My bloody head. I hate you. I think I hate you even more now that I’m aware of what you’re doing to me. I mean, I’ve been binging for years but now I’ve understood it’s to hurt me, to give myself the excuse of why I’m single and failing at life, it hurts so much more. If we are going to look at silver linings, my teeth have been done twice a day for 2 days so at least all that sugar isn’t destroying the remainder of my teeth.
Tonight, I made the healthy and sensible decision to not finish the last 3 episodes of Love Island and instead wash my hair. The decision was either wash tonight or not wash, watch Love Island and humour myself that I’ll wash in the morning. I’ll then over sleep and rely on dry shampoo. It’s a well rehearsed dance. This time though, I made the right call. Once clean and night rituals complete, I lay on my bed with Damien Rice on Spotify for company. I read. My ankle hurts though. A lot. A lot a lot. I’ve taken the cast off to shower and was contemplating not putting it back on until the morning. I was testing myself. Does it really hurt? Am I faking this? No, Person C, you’ve got to trust yourself. It’s injured. It hurts enough to make you let some choice expletives slip out. You don’t need to ‘prove’ anything to anyone. It hurts and that’s ok. I put the cast back on and it is instant pain relief. Oh fuck, Person C, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Why can’t you be ok? Why can’t you be ‘Normal’? Damien Rice’s ‘Older Chests’ comes on. It’s like in a movie. Perfect timing of the music to sync up with my mind. I hate this so much. I’d give anything to not know what depression, anxiety, OCD and over eating was. I’d give anything to be ‘Normal’.
Discovering this has made my evening!