Welcome to the quarter

For the first twenty-three years of my life I lived in the wonderful oblivion that comes with the complete self-involvement of youth. As a teenager and student, I spent most of my time in the whimsical haze of my Sturm und Drang years, thinking myself a Bohemian because I wore scarves instead of belts around my waist, and writing poems about all my teenage angst to impress my pseudo-intellectual friends with. My diary droned on for days about some or other spotty Adonis over at the neighbouring boys school, and the worst thing that had ever happened to me was a failed driver’s test (or two). As soon as life got too hard, vacation time kicked in: three months of doing an unthinkable amount of nothing.

Somehow, during all those years of navel-gazing and obsessing over life’s great existential questions (Who am I? What is the point of me? How do other girls always get their hair to lie flat?), I never really thought about real life. I suppose it’s because I always had that closet full of unasked for parental advice in the back of my mind: say please and thank you, don’t talk to strangers, your skirt won’t ride up if you wear pantyhose, and (my personal favourite) life’s not fair, get used to it. I really, genuinely believed that these pearls of wisdom would be all I ever needed to know. So why waste valuable time on a reality check?

Oh well. After six years of blissful childhood, twelve years of school, five years of studying and one glorious year abroad, twenty-four came to end it all. And what an unceremonious end it was. Six months into my first “real” job, tired after another day’s hard work, my mind instinctively reached for its one and only real coping mechanism, “Don’t worry, holiday’s just around the corner.”

But it wasn't. Not for another six months when I would take my fifteen annual days off. Fifteen days. Not three months. Not even three weeks. Fifteen days. And there it was. The thing my parents had forgotten to tell me:

There are no breaks from adulthood.

It never ends. There isn't a prolonged pause between one year and the next. There is no sleeping in and copying your classmate’s notes later. Responsibilities start and never stop accumulating, and weekends become a refuge for your social life.

It never ends.

Baffled by my inability to see this coming, I retreated to my personal library of memories: break times on the school lawn, walking to class down a leafy Victoria Street, afternoon naps on rainy days, midnight parties on the beach with friends and a bottle of wine, and my sweetest memory of all: handing all my mail from ABSA over to my dad unopened.

As soon as I dared to peek outside my nostalgia, a world that could only have been dreamt up by Samuel Beckett awaited me, and I found it ever so slightly terrifying.

Then, one beautiful spring day, twenty-five came. Sitting on my veranda at the foot of Table Mountain, drinking tea and reading my favourite magazine I had an unexpected change of heart.

I realised that these are the best years of my life.

Yes, my job can be frustrating, but it’s my job that I get to be great at. Yes, my flat has cockroaches, lifting tiles, leaking pipes and (I only discovered it this morning) a wet patch of wall behind my bed, but it’s my flat where I can come and go as I please. I have my car, some money in the bank, and I live in what I am convinced is the most beautiful city in the world.

What’s more, I have my youth, but now I have it without all the angst and pretension of my adolescent years. My poems are better, my friends have grown up with me, and that spotty Adonis from the neighbouring boys school has grown into my gorgeous fiancé. Plus, I now wear scarves because I actually like them, not because I wish I was Isadora Duncan.

Best of all, even better than admitting that I like the new Katy Perry single without worrying about my reputation, is the sublime feeling of accomplishment at the end of each day. I love, love, LOVE that I am able to drive myself through the city, that I am earning my own living, paying my own rent, cooking my own food (yesterday’s roast chicken was another triumph) and cleaning my own flat. I’m sure the aspiring Serena van der Woodsens of the world would disagree, but I honestly don’t think it gets better than this.

And yes, adulthood is bound to get more complicated as the years go by and mortgages, kids and dentures appear. But as someone once said, “I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning to sail my ship.”

In other words: bring it on.