It’s Bank Holiday weekend over here in the UK, and I’m in my pjs (not that I actually got out of them other than to shower) watching Modern Family at 10pm. I’ve binge-watched my way through Big Little Lies (it was excellent by the way) and now I’m curled up in my Slytherin blanket hoping for some whoosh of inspiration.
What happened to me?
18 months ago, I’d have been spending this long weekend getting royally wankered – shots in bars in Clapham, celebrating payday with a drink in my hand, getting so drunk I can’t see straight. I’m not advocating it by the way – it’s certainly not a healthy lifestyle – but at least I’d have been doing something.
I’ve felt something shift over the last year or so – I’m less motivated to actually go out and do things, I’d rather stay in, read a book, watch tv or a film. Don’t get me wrong, if I’m already out, staying out and getting drunk is still quite frequently an option, but I just don’t like actually leaving the flat.
The flat is safe – it’s always been a safe place. Even on my worst days – and yes, there still are some – my bed is safe. My flat is safe, because it’s only Edd and I, and I won’t embarrass myself or do anything wrong or say something stupid. And so, I never really want to leave it, except for work, or other occasional goings on.
And yet, there is this nagging feeling that I’m missing out. It’s the same feeling I had back in my first year of uni when everyone would go out clubbing and I wouldn’t be able to go because I was terrified of so many things:
- getting the bus with a load of drunk students who might throw up (fear made worse by a friend of mine telling me he got drunk and threw up on said bus)
- getting to the club and the bathroom facilities either being covered in vom, or massive queues for the loos
- getting to the club and it being absolutely rammed and me not being able to get out, to breathe, to leave if I needed to
- on the off chance none of the above happened, then having to wait hours for a taxi back from the club so I didn’t have to get on the bus with the aforementioned drunk students.
What exactly do I feel like I’m missing out on? Certainly not the “London lifestyle” (please note, unless you’re very financially secure, the London lifestyle is nothing more than a pile of debt, smelly weather and sirens – too harsh?), and certainly not getting so drunk that it hurts to move the next day.
But I feel like there’s something I’m not a part of anymore.
And I’m a bit worried it’s the anxiety creeping back.