So I was in my new place late night with my flatmate Charis. Brand new sofa covers echoed this stream of grey, boxes were emptied and discarded, in their place are ornaments of sentimentality, and there was a hum from the refrigerator. Going through lists of cheap food to stock up over the upcoming month, we are drinking wine and reclining on our sofas, deep in late night philosophies and mirth.
We’re basically adulting. Adulting hard, guys.
I’ve taken a new adventure into the world of adulthood and all things grown-up. I am no longer living in rooms, a pest in other people’s homes or bombarded by eight other people. I no longer have to put all my things into 4 metre boxes, keeping memories in storage or family housing. I no longer have to feel nervous about placing my body in living spaces, scurrying away when i hear the clunk of keys in locks. I now have somewhere to stretch out, to build, and to grow with my own personality and that of a good and amazing friend of mine. Just a singular home home companion and I am finally renting a flat. In London of all places. It feels very mature, indeed.
There is somewhat of a thrill to all this. Not only is there excitement in having a brand new place for just us two, but there’s also a glee when you prove to yourself and others you’re no longer that irresponsible tearaway. It’s like playing a video game. Once it was flailing around and shitting yourself whenever something bad comes your way, now it’s defeating big bosses with ease, earning points, and extra lives. I’ve levelled the fuck up, baby.
Now we have truly adult-y things to do like pay rent, make sure bills never go overdue, and also look into things such as clothes horses, and coat hangers with our money instead of alcohol, sweets, and crazy things.
OK. As well as alcohol, sweets, and crazy things.
We also have a place to explore it’s quirks. It”s a Victorian Townhouse with fireplaces in every room, a two story layout, and history seeping from it’s walls, Creaky floorboards and rattling walls, extractor fans that are motion censored, and a fridge that can’t quite figure out what temperature it wants to be at – all these things imbue me with a sense of home and even though it’s been merely five days, that kinda belonging that I have missed for at least half a decade is filtering back. I’m growing up but I’m also finding my place. It feels great, exciting, and terrifying.
Oh god is it terrifying.
Whenever a grown-up step is undertaken, there’s also a fear that you’ll do something undeniably stupid to fuck it up. Especially if you’ve had the history with mental health and financial moronic behaviour like I have. Clinging onto the past as though it is prove of how shit you are, the desperation to get it right this time sparks the air with anxiety and I lie awake trembling with the nervousness and pure elation. It’s exhilarating as much as it’s intensely panicking.
Yet I’m not going to let it break me, nor am I going to take it as truth. I am going to rise to the occasion and parade my new fangled adulthood down the streets of Brixton. I’m going to use this as stepping stone to propel myself further. I am going to make amends, move forward, and earn some dollar, dollar, dolllar not to lose this place.
I am going to make it.
On another note: we also have a heated towel rack. We don’t know how to use it but we have a heated towel rack.
How’s that for a slice of cold hard adulting?
….Cold because I don’t know how to use the heated towel rack.