Plan B and beyond

I must confess, I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m completely and utterly winging this adult thing. One day, people are going to find out that I’m really a 22-year-old living in a 35-year-old’s body (that day might just be today). Most of my friends are off celebrating their anniversaries and having more babies while I’m just hanging out working, travelling, writing and drinking all the gin – which makes me rather happy, really. 

When I think about Plan A, I realise how much I completely and utterly messed that up. My plan was to be an adult. Set up a picket fence. Change nappies. Arrange PTA fundraisers. Make homemade jam. Run marathons every now and then. Contribute to the world by being responsible and a good role model and stuff. Yet here I am. On a path so far away from Plan A that it’s impossible to even imagine what the plan was at the beginning. In fact, I’m not even living my Plan B. I’m on like Plan F.

Mysteriously my exercise app reached 10,000 steps yesterday and pinged ‘congratulations’ while I was shlumfing on the couch, with a sore head, shoving Ben and Jerry’s in my face, directly from the tub. I think, in reality, I’d done about 300 steps. To the bathroom. The kitchen. And to the front door to accept my food delivery. I was meant to go for a walk in the countryside. And for a drive around my new town to plan my future. Or alternatively head back into the city to visit the Tower of London with a friend from home. Instead I spent the whole day recovering from two straight days of wine, margaritas, GnTs and loads of fun.    

I was a calm twenty-year-old. I did a bunch of the usual privileged-brat things. But mostly I was a grown up. I didn’t drink too much. Or swear. I stayed away from drugs and experimentation. I was nice to my parents – most of the time. I went to church every Sunday and served in the greeting team. I spent a year volunteering at a male, juvenile prison over  weekends. I gave to the less fortunate. I had a long term boyfriend who I was completely faithful and committed to. I got a job reasonably soon out of uni and worked really hard. Despite being in advertising I avoided putting white powders up my nose – or anywhere else. All things considered, I was a saint.    

Fast forward to my thirties and I’m doing twenty better. I’m still fairly geeky (I’m not exactly experimenting with narcotics or prostituting myself - which is slightly disappointing, I know). A few months ago I met some colleagues for ‘a drink’ around 5pm on a Friday. I woke up the following morning with a whopping headache, feeling dazed and confused. I spent some time looking through my mobile phone photos to understand the timeline from the evening before. It involved four fabulous women, 11 bottles of bubbles (according to the receipt in my bag), pulling on the flat shoes, leaving my car somewhere in town and getting dropped off by a colleague’s boyfriend at 3am. I awoke with a careful sigh, mindful of re-drunking myself from the alcohol fumes. I felt a marvellous sense of achievement. I 22'ed myself. How completely irresponsible.

Despite the fact that it’s all gone wrong. That my plans have unravelled one by one. It’s all been quite perfect. I’m intolerably happy. I’ve learnt to let my hair down. But hold onto my values. Be a bit of a disaster. While keeping it together (mostly). Go on some terrible dates. Pick up the pieces. Go on more. Find myself living in a new country. Allowing my career to unfold in ways I never planned, or expected. And drink all the margaritas.

My inner control freak has moments of panic. When I take second to internalise that I’m not on script. That my narrative is completely upside down and inside out. That there’s no one waiting in the wings to support. That I used the picket fence as firewood. And the jam bottles for cocktails. I’m on my own in ways that many will never understand. There’s nothing quite like settling 10,000kms away from your family and friends to show you things about yourself that you never knew.      

Though on the surface, it seems like everyone around me has it all figured out, I know that’s not the case. We’re all just shuffling through this thing called life, trying to understand our purpose, be good people and be happy. We’re all in it together. We all have our successes and our failures. We’ve all missed Plan A in some way or another. And it’s totally ok. Here’s to whatever plan iteration you’re on – it's yours, may it make you happy beyond your own belief. Cheers!

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