I am a huge procrastinator on the internets. Chances are, if you’re reading this, I’ve already stalked your Facebook page dry and know exactly what and who you did last weekend.
One particular time waster that I am a complete sucka for are those ridiculous list-gif articles. You know the ones- 8 Totally Valid Reasons To Never Pop a Kid Out of Your Hoo-Hoo Dilly Hole or 27 Ways That Underpants Are Back In Fashion This Summer.
I have wasted hours, nay, days, of my life looking at these lists. And I can’t bloody help it- I know how lame they are and yet I find myself reading them and muttering to myself, ‘eh mah gerd, that is soooooooo true.’ I mean, full confessional here, I was once looking at something along the lines of pictures to make you bloody believe in the world again and I shed a tear. I mean, actual salty liquid squeezed out from behind my cynical eyeholes. Am I alone in this or it is just the early signs of my inevitable fate as a crazy cat lady?
Anyway, recently I was looking at one about Life in Your Early Twenties vs. Late Twenties and after I finished my session of vigorous head nodding, I decided I had a couple to add to the list, centred around an average weekend.
Drum roll ploise.
Saturday Breakfast: Early Twenties
I don’t know about you but my Saturday mornings used to consist of a fight between myself and whoever had slept on the floor of my house about who was the least hung over and was going to drive to McDonald’s in their pyjamas before the dreaded 10.30am breakfast menu cut off. In many cases, no-one was fit to drive but lives were put on the line in order to get our hands on the tiny piece of heaven that was a cup of watery orange juice concentrate. It was perfectly acceptable to hand the unlucky driver the cash for two, maybe even three bacon-egg McMuffins without fear of judgment or comments about the Quarter Pounder you already ate last night at 2am, whose ketchup remnants have well and truly dried into your doona.
Saturday Breakfast: Late Twenties
We aren’t eating breakfast anymore, dahling; we are ‘doing brunch.’ This means you’ve entered a phase of your life where another person will actually expect you to leave the house on a Saturday morning before 12pm and, not meaning to scare you, they expect you to be wearing pants. We’ll sit on thinly cushioned milk crates on the sparse patch of sun by a main road and although we’ll spend ages mulling over the menu, we’ll both ultimately order eggs benedict with ridiculous amounts of hollandaise sauce but served on multi-grain bread for ‘health reasons.’ Our meals arrive dished up on jazzy saucepan lids with elaborate snow pea sprout garnish creations and we’ll both probably pull out our phones and take a picture, tagged with #brunchmunches, #saturdaysun #thisismyreallife & #lucky.
Inevitably, following this comes.....
Sundays: Early Twenties
Back in the day, I thought nothing of spending my whole Sunday curled up in a sleeping bag (because my doona was too tomato-saucy at this point), watching Heath Ledger in 10 Things I Hate About You for the third weekend in a row. On a side note, I challenge you to watch that movie now and not feel sadness whenever Heath bloody sings. Taken too soon Heath, taken too sooooon. If I was feeling particularly ambitious, a trip to the movies themselves might be attempted but usually not as the sleeping bag wasn’t allowed to come too. A shower was pondered upon at around 5pm, attempted around 7pm and vetoed as a non-necessity around 8pm as it was already too late and you would only be getting back into your pyjamas anyway.
Sundays: Late Twenties
In your late twenties, Sundays suddenly become all about ‘making the most of the day,’ as if we're all about to drop dead at any moment. And seemingly, the most universal activity that deems your weekend worthy is a trip to the markets. I dunno what it is but something about going to the markets gets those close to thirty really hot. Now look, I really don’t mean to be rude-I do like the occasional trip to the markets myself. In theory.
But in reality, after I have eaten my obligatory market pork buns, I realise there is nothing to do but be dragged around looking at overpriced fancy soaps that remind me that I’m not yet earning enough money to be able to afford said overpriced fancy soaps. After a while of lingering too long around the cheese samples and having my toothpick confiscated, I buy a few vegies for the amazing grown-up vegetarian stir fry I tell myself I will cook that week. The vegies will end up sitting neglected in my refrigerator for the next two weeks, rotting into an indistinguishable mess, forcing me to end up going to Coles for the ingredients anyway.
Which brings me to....
Cooking: Early Twenties
In my yesteryears, the only cook book I actually owned was sponsored by Maggi- as in, the creators of 2 Minute Noodles. It was called Life Beyond Pizza: Easy Meals For First Time Flatters and contained chapter titles such as (no joke), Feeding The Herd: Stuff You Can Make Heaps Of. Despite its simplistic brilliance, I never used it and relied upon my trademark dish of fried rice, where I strove to prove the theory that just adding a bit more soy sauce would make the glugginess of the rice undetectable to my fellow diners. In fact, back then, my love of soy sauce knew no bounds and there wasn't a dish I didn’t think it could be added to. Dessert was a home-made version of Cold Rock and by that I mean I would stick the marble cutting board I had into the freezer for a bit, bash a few m and m’s and ice-cream on it and call it a day.
Cooking : Late Twenties
At this point, invitations for dinner parties on a Saturday night are starting to roll in rather than last minute text msgs to all night ragers and everyone is ready to roll up their sleeves and show you what a Masterchef they are. Suddenly, a large Dominoes Pizza just doesn't cut it no more. People start doing very drastic things like making pizza dough from scratch and topping them with fresh tomatoes that they have actually bothered to grow. I mean, bloody GROW!
Cooking books are a late twenties version of porn and no-one is exempt from it, not even me. My sister recently gave me a book called Saved By Cake: 80 Ways To Bake Yourself Happy for my birthday and I almost peed my pants in excitement. I proceeded to try and bake some bliss into my life via an apple tart and in an arty-farty moment, spent at least a good 15 minutes positioning the final product next to the cookbook for photo I popped on Facebook. You know why? Because people my age ‘like’ that shit now.
|This is who I am now.|
Of course, some changes are a good thing and whilst seeing the sun on a Saturday morning and not the inside of your stanky sleeping bag can surely only be a good thing, there are times when I long to cry out that I actually enjoyed that bacon egg McMuffin way more than the $16 eggs benedict.