Culture, Sports, Writing…or whatever
I don’t think I’m very good at being a 20-something. I’m in the bottom half of the bell curve at least. If being a 20-something were really the fairytale race it’s so often depicted, I would be neither the tortoise nor the hare. I’d be more like if a sloth fused with a manatee after shoving down two whole roast chickens from your local grocery deli; I’ll get there, but, um, don’t wait up for me.
(One of my proudest high school achievements was while working at Winn-Dixie—the underwear skid marks of Florida grocery stores—I bare-handed inhaled an entire lemon pepper roast chicken on my 30-minute break on a co-worker’s dare and somehow didn’t get fired—despite almost puking twice in a customer’s shopping bags, and also disappearing for an hour in the bathroom—as I trundled through the rest of my shift like 25-pound sandbags full of greased chicken were attached to every limb of my body. You might also be surprised to learn I didn’t lose my virginity until college.)
Looking around me, everyone seems better suited for this 20-something lifestyle than I am. I’m not saying this as criticism of my generation’s tendency to only post about the *lit*, aren’t-you-jealous moments of their lives on social media so I feel FOMO and jealous and wish I was someone else. And I’m not throwing a pity party regarding possible advantages or early successes my peers might have had, ones that cause thoughts of re-imagined pasts full every possible connection and break a lucky guy could have. And I promise you I’m not leering over the fence, wondering how so-and-so has “figured it out” while I haven’t, desperately wishing someone would hand me the correct blueprint to follow. Because if there’s one trait I’ve learned defines being a 20-something, of being a 21st century human, I wholeheartedly share, it’s that deep down, in some branch of their life, no one has their shit together.
So yeah. None of that stuff really bothers me. Well okay, it bothers me a little, but I don’t find it troubling, it doesn’t keep me up at night. It’s mostly cool, I guess. Instead what unnerves me is this idea of being a 20-something, and how we should all cherish the chance to stay a big kid.
Within the past 20 years or whatever this idea of having an “extended adolescence” has become more obligation than option. You kind of can’t grow up in that traditional sense—own a house, start a family—in your 20s anymore, especially if you live in any thriving, even semi-metropolitan area. It just costs too much. Perhaps the adultlike distinction of getting married remains an available recourse, though you a) would likely need significant financial assistance from loved ones and b) makes no mention of the convoluted, fucked-up dating scene currently available to most singles in their 20s. Don’t worry, we won’t venture down that sidewinding tangent of millennial dating. But know that over the past 50 or so years the median age of marriage increased from 21 to 27 for females and 23 to 29 for males. I don’t think that’s a random coincidence!
But owning a house, starting a family? In this economy? With this tunneling pit of debt filled with college loans preemptively saddled upon me as precedent to even possibly entering this economy? Can I get out of this hold I find myself in first?
I want to catch myself before painting some massive swaths of generalization here, but the pressures of overpopulation (some of you refuse to die), our still-freshly interconnected global economy, and technology improving so rapidly and so widely, rendering more jobs obsolete as more overly qualified people compete for this dwindling job pool, does rather complicate things. I know this is where the boomers and reformed hippies interject that a threat like automation has loomed dangerous for the past seven hundred decades and hasn’t destroyed us yet, so stop worrying. To which I’d say: Saudi Arabia became the first country to grant citizenry to a robot last week—a robot that literally said “Destroy all humans” just a year ago!—so yeah, I’d venture to say things are a little different. Cryo-freeze Arnold Schwarzenegger now or else we’ll have no chance to save humanity.
Wow this post derailed quickly… Anyways! That tangent served to underscore my growing theory that “extended adolescence,” once a kitschy term for morning talk show segments and Gallup polls, isn’t a trend. It is the future reality. If 50 is the new 40, being 25 is the new 15. For so many 20-somethings that’s the truth: They still live at home with their parents, can’t find a girlfriend, and stuck bussing tables as any means of income. This week you mopping floors—and if you’re really ambitious—next week it’s the fries. Yeah…that’s nice.
Most blessed enough to obtain work in their desired field are scraping by or somewhat compromising what they really want to be doing. (Hold that thought.) The kids who couldn’t find work and don’t live at home resorted to the only option they had left: grad school. Yay, more doubt and debt!
Apologies for painting a soulless, cynical picture, because I promise you I know it’s not that bad. Really, it’s fine. I’m fine, you’re fine. Maybe some of us have a small drinking problem, but like just don’t start injecting heroin and it’ll probably be okay, fam.
What am I saying? Something like that a contradictory tension undergirds being a 20-something and no one openly discusses it enough to my liking. On one hand you’re instructed to embark on a free-spirited adventure because there’s nothing like being in your 20s. Splurge on adventures, travel, and don’t worry about that developing gut of yours. If you lack the funds now, just put it on the credit card! You got time, you’re in your 20s! On the other hand, you’re supposed to be #hustling, with plenty of (maybe) experts cramming into you 12,000 lifehacks to implement daily—“Bro, buy these $69.95 nootropics, cut out gluten, and microdose penicillin to achieve grind goals of working 34 hours a day.” You’ll have to wait on those simple joys of being a human—love, nature, laughter—because right now you should focus on your brand and know your Plan to Success™. Thanks to the internet, you have all the tools you could ever need, why aren’t you winning yet?
It all makes you want to yell, “Can’t I just be a fuckup sometimes?” Really it’s overwhelming and we haven’t even discussed the glut of news, opinions, and other bullshit you should be up to date on, like, two news cycles ago. (You might even be reading this as alternative to engaging with whatever latest controversy or scandal that everyone’s sharing their trite opinions on.) This, I reason, is why most would rather curl up on a couch and binge the latest mediocre Netflix show now available to stream. Seriously no judging—it’s easier that way.
But if you do the research and survey the data, only one reasonable conclusion remains available. It’s so obviously boring I don’t even want to type it out. Really, it’s so simple: You just can’t give up. Survive and keep trying as much as humanly possible. Continue knocking on that door because you never know when it’ll open for you—could be tomorrow and it could be when you’re 43. You really must steel yourself for that possibility. Your dream job or dream project might not come for that long. But you have to know it will come if you continue to put forth the effort.
So why do I suck at being a 20-something? Because I know all this shit and it doesn’t comfort me any. I should revel in this beautiful struggle, but I impatiently can’t. I just want to know the latest first step I’ve taken is the right one and I promise I’ll put my head down and just work if given that confirmation. Yet even that admission carries with it this strange guilt, knowing how utterly first world problem/white people problem this all is. Part of this, too, stems from entering the downward stretch of being a 20-something (I’m closer to 30 than 20), where your core foundation of who you are is mostly figured out, but some lingering insecurities persist as you piece together the final building blocks.
I read this quote from an actress—it was either Lizzy Caplan or Tina Fey—basically saying how once into your 30s, you kind of just are who you are, and all this anxious worrying falls away. That thought comforts me. I cling to it, really. I think I’ll be better as a 30-something anyways. My beard will look cooler at least.
For now I’m just doing my best to shut off this side of my brain and continue doing what I’m doing. Steer into the insecurity and fear as always. Writing all this down helps. So does that conventional wisdom of travel I gently mocked. People repeat it because it’s true. Sometimes you just need to get away from it all. This is why I’m disappearing to Japan next week and intend to eat every udon noodle and piece of sushi I can find. I might come back with my gut looking like a sumo wrestler’s. But hey, I’m only in my 20s. I still got time, right?
< 3 Sashimi Bren
I’ve been dreaming again. Usually it involves someone from my past. It’s non-recurring, different people each time. I won’t go into any more detail.
I hold a new desire to share How I Feel. Not all the way and not with everyone and not about everything. Limited revealing. Peeling back one piece at a time. Banal comparison to layers of an onion, but Shrek already did that. Yet I use it anyways. This says more about me than I wish it did.
I will hide this post from family and (some) friends on Facebook because we’re all connected. This is distinctly a first-world problem. Worrying over the manner in which I express my feelings. No one ever has enough control. Maybe it’s just a white-people problem. Most of my ‘anxiety’ distills down to that, basically. Not having enough followed by guilt knowing I should feel I do.
The world tries to convince me otherwise. The lie goes I’m connected to a seven-year-old, starving Sudanese boy. I’m not. My day-to-day actions and angst don’t affect him, though I wish it did. I remind myself this is why Christians go on retreats. I worry my Christian friends will find this ‘offensive’. Connections on the network don’t die that easily. The Internet’s the biggest troll.
But I will post this on Facebook. No one hears you in a vacuum. Everything worthwhile is niche; the niche is dead. It isn’t profitable. Grantland died. Did you hear? You might’ve heard the thousands of millennial white boys masturbating posts of #sadness. Or you heard the thousands of media members blistering this is How It Is Now. On some real revolutionary Join or Die shit. Or you heard nothing because you ‘don’t care’. That feels good I suppose. I am sad, though.
My parents celebrate more than me for Halloween. A party the night before with rich people, handing out candy on the holiday. They drink; they scare children. I drink; I scare myself. Not specifically, just generally. I buy a bottle of Hpnotiq to create the illusion of turn-up. Over half the bottle goes down. Friends help. We are TURNT. We are the TURNTest. The Hpnotiq tastes artificial, as expected. That’s not a metaphor, though perhaps it should be. I don’t hate it.
The night goes smoothly. We watch The Purge 2: Anarchy. I prefer my title, America: We Kill People Here. My title card would have the anarchical “A” for stylistic effect since I’m an artist. Spoiler alert for this C-level ‘horror’ movie you’ll never see: Humans would do bad things if you let them. Except not all. So the government helps. Because the government hates poor people and wish they died already, this time specifically not generally. The plot’s simultaneously highly plausible and implausible. It’s all an allegory.
I download Tinder and Bumble, mostly for attention. No intentions of meet-ups. Too worried I’ll end up in an extortion plot. So: Swipe right, swipe right, swipe right, swipe right, swipe right, swipe right, except a few lefts on some big girls. Okay. Pretend the outrage, that disguise of self-disgust you do so well. You’re righteous, I’m not. Cool. One girl asks what I’m doing tonight, this Hallow’s Eve. “I’m wearing a different hat,” I respond. Now that’s a metaphor. I delete both apps within the hour.
I go to sleep but don’t dream. I find it comforting.
[a] millennial reservations 