By JAMILA RIZVI
Two years ago, I got on a plane and flew to the other side of the world in search of the crazy 20s I was convinced I’d been missing out on.
After years of focusing (read: obsessing) over some fairly lofty career goals, working my butt off balancing full time work with full time study and never straying from a fairly comfortable relationship path – I was finally going to be young and dumb for a while.
Because that’s what your 20s are for, right? It’s when you’re supposed to make mistakes: sleep with the bad boy, experiment with substances you shouldn’t, fail the exams, live at home and save on rent, ignore dates and deadlines, blow all your money on that once-in-a-lifetime holiday, mess around and never worry about the consequences.
And for my generation there seems to be an expectation that you should make these carefree years last for as long as possible. In fact, right up until there is no longer a lovely number ‘2’ at the front of your age and it is instead replaced by a big fat-tummied ‘3’.
Because apparently 30 is the new 20.
For the generations that came immediately before Y, 20 (or more specifically 21) was seen as the gateway to adulthood. It was when you made plans, set goals, became fully independent from your parents and got serious about work. But now? Notsomuch.