The Disillusion of It All

(as I've been on a really non-intentional hiatus, I thought best to repost the original topic for motivation purposes).

I really thought, well, that things would be different.

My whole life I couldn’t wait to be in my mid-twenties. Even through what many reminisce as the glory days of high school I knew that something brilliant awaited me. I was ready and willing to endure teen angst for that shining beacon of my twenties. Oh, how grand my twenties would be. Finally I’d effortlessly inhibit The Perfect Body (because by then hormones and all that stuff would have itself figured out), my hair would be the sophisticated and glamorous cut I’d be mature enough to upkeep, and I’d be a hard working and successful professional with a smart & equally perfect male mate of his early thirties (or late thirties, but with men you always have to subtract five years in order to get real life age). It’d be like the Cover Girl commercials say- easy and breezy and beautiful!

Let me tell you something: Here I am, smack dab in my twenties, and my life does not feel like a Cover Girl commercial. Not. At. All. I am in constant battle with my hair, I’ve been working hard long hours (really, usually 45-60 a week) at the same company for four years and I still make less than the average stripper. And for some reason people keep calling me Victoria, which is not my name. I’ve had a string of boyfriends, man interests and mini encounters that tell a story better than most soap operas. Usually not the scenes with satin sheets and rose petals. The tragedies I’ve incurred in the past few years would make you weep while you hurl sage at me in hopes my bad aura doesn’t seep into your pores. My apartment rarely heats above 50 degrees, my eye has been twitching for 3 months now, and I once woke up in a closet because I accidentally overdosed on the Ambien I have to take every night to deal with my horrible rotten no good very bad terrible twenties.

Whew. I feel a little better now. Focus. There is a purpose to all of this self-indulgent despair. I am not a complete narcissist, and have come to believe that I am probably not the only one suffering aimlessly through her twenties. That girl over there with the perfectly puffed ponytail and Seven jeans? She’s in her twenties too! And she probably has something bad going on. And she just might get a kick or a snicker out of reading about my issues and opinions. Or she might conclude I’m insane, but that would be entertaining, therefore still beneficial to all.