A Tough Time to be Twenty?

Ahh, the Facebook envy.

Ah, these media-frenzied times that we live in. For anyone who picks up a newspaper every once in a while or tunes into the rolling broadcasts that frequent our television sets, it would appear that we are living in the worst times possible. Aren’t we youngsters miserable, stuck living in our parent’s spare room or having nervous breakdowns a la Amanda Bynes? We’re working for free because although we paid an extortionate amount to put ourselves through university, a decent degree doesn’t mean too much these days. We are pretty sure that we won’t be signing up for mortgages until we reach our mid-forties and all whilst simultaneously attempting to pay off our credit card debt. Yes, it all sounds terribly depressing. Ask anyone from the age of eighteen to thirty and they might tell you just how much generation Y has been short-changed.

However, it may not be the times that we live in but the access that we have to everyone’s lives. Back in the 1960s when my parents were growing up, times were just as hard. My father worked three jobs just to save up for his first car- a battered vehicle I’m not entirely sure was road-worthy. My mother moved out from her parents house when she left school, into a cold dark flat that she shared with three other girls. Heating was a luxury and they hand-crafted the latest fashions with the help of a sewing machine - thankfully, ra-ra skirts were in fashion that year. Neither of them even had the opportunity of further education, let alone a graduate job. The main difference between their generation and ours? Technology.

We live in a media-centred society. When house prices go up, the press take to scaremongering young people that they’ll never have their foot on the ladder. Rolling news of young celebrities in crisis taking drugs are featured regularly. Social media is the worst culprit. Holiday pictures paraded on Instagram, Facebook statuses depicting new job opportunities, exam results posted up for everyone to see. This is an unhealthy glimpse into everyone else’s lives and a terrible temptation to compare your life to others.

Taylor knows what its like to be 22. Sort of.

I’m not suggesting we go back to the good old days. Instead, I think it is time to appreciate just how far we have come. Whilst we don’t have it all, we have much more freedom and choice than those of previous generations. However, with wider choice comes wider ambition. Perfect house, perfect relationship and perfect job all by the time we are thirty? It just isn't possible.

Ultimately, our lives haven’t changed. Being in your twenties is still a time of being unsettled and attempting to find yourself in the world. You will make some terrible relationship choices, some wrong job choices, even some questionable outfit choices. It will be a struggle. However, every small victory- be it your first car (paid for with your own hard-earned cash), your first door key (rented or otherwise) or that first big career break will feel even better knowing you have truly worked for it. Honestly? Pour yourself a large glass of wine and give yourself a break - your twenties will be over before you know it.

Self service, No service

I remember the good old days. Weren’t things great then? Back when shopping was an experience rather than a torturous necessity. Much like any cash-strapped teenager embarking upon the adult world, I too was a retail assistant for a while. Oh, I could reminisce about those weekends I spent with my hands covered in newspaper print and my mind on the latest greeting card offer. I could tell you of the laughs, the thrills, and particularly the blank expression of a customer when asked ‘would you like any half price chocolate with that?’ The point is, it wasn’t the minimum wage that went into my account each month that inspired me to wake up for work on a Sunday. It was human contact. Very often, I’d see the same customers each week (admittedly, some of them a lot more than I’d like.) Yes, it’s sad to admit, but it was the brief chats about newspaper headlines and new twenty pound notes that really made the experience for me and the customer.

This brings me to self-service machines. Those God-awful things. In theory, they sound quite fantastic. Machines that speak to you and don’t judge you on the multi-pack of chocolate digestives you have just bought for dinner? Fantastic. In practice, however, the opposite is true. These are machines that bleep at each sense of movement, bellowing ‘Unexpected item in bagging area’ in a way that makes you feel unnecessarily guilty. They are also highly repetitive. Not a week goes by when I don’t find myself becoming increasingly frustrated with a machine that bleats ‘Enter cash or card’ like a broken record, whilst simultaneously choosing to reject the cash or card I have entered.

I recently found myself in the Brighton branch of Boots making a purchase using the dreaded machines. As I placed the last of my items down, the machine started up: ‘Please put THIS item in the bagging area. ‘I waggled my finger towards the machine. ‘THIS is in the bagging area!’ I roared, picking up the remainder of my purchases. ‘And THIS is in the bagging area. And THIS is in the bagging area!’ I dropped the objects one by one into a plastic carrier, all the while getting angrier. ‘I’ll tell you what; I’ll even put them in the bag in the bagging area!’ There was a sudden silence. A small voice came from behind me: ‘er, sometimes the items are quite light so they don’t register too well. Sorry about that.’ I turned around, smiled politely at her. ‘That’s fine. Thank you very much for your help.’ Ahh, human contact. Just what I wanted.