A Twenty Something Christmas

I love Christmas. Love. It.

I was very close to purchasing an advent calendar this year but figured I didn't need any more chocolate in my life right now. I'm sure there are calendars out there without delicious treats behind the perforated squares but the gratification just wouldn't be the same.

Ofcourse I can't say that I love Christmas as much as I did as a child. I was one of those kids that tossed and turned all night then stared at the clock from about 3am until 6am. This was the designated 'getting up' time as imposed by my evil parents who were clearly sadists. We were talking about this at work the other day when one woman said that she often has to wake her kids up on Christmas morning. What is with the youth of today?! It was apparently no suprise to anyone that I was one of the overly zealous greedy little creatures that struggled to sleep on Christmas Eve...hmm.

I don't watch the clock anymore but to be fair I probably wouldn't sleep so well if it wasn't for the traditional boozy beach bonfire I now participate in every year (great tradition by the way, I recommend it!). No, my passion for Christmas has lulled since then, particularly during my angsty teen years where spending time with family is either humiliating or incredibly tiresome. I mean why spend the day at home when I could be out with my mates stealing some booze and maybe a pash from some guy down at the park right?!

I have grown up a wee bit since then. Obviously booze still plays its part but unfortunately no pashing this year with the boyfriend at his home on the other island. That's an odd thing about twenty something Christmases in a long term relationship. Typically you don't have enough responsibility (or funds, patience, sobriety skills...) to host your own event so the tricky decision as to whose house you should go to has to be made. So we decided to not decide (we're good at that) and instead stick with our own respective herds. Maybe next year we'll choose. Although the possibility that I may have to give up my Mum's Christmas Eve ham is going to be a bone of contention.

That brings me to the next major influencing factor and potentially the difference between a great or epic fail of a twenty something Christmas. Family. You're past the years when family members merely resemble brightly coloured packages and the biggest gets most of your attention. You're also well over the 'family equals lame' phase. Now you get the dubious delight of being able to observe first hand, the strain that this magical time puts on family ties.

Naturallly such tension has probably always existed but it's just that now you're not too distracted by greed or self loathing to notice. A friend of mine has a family who are particularly difficult and so he's come up with what I think is a novel solution. Remove stress from the equation and take the family to the beach for the day. No massive feast to prepare, just a picnic. No formal dining setup, just a blanket. And if anyone starts something- go for a swim. Genius.

See as Grinchy as you may want to get on the topic, there is always a solution to family feuds at Christmas. At my house it's Champagne and lots of it. Now you see why I love it!

Oh and did I mention I still get Santa presents? Don't judge me.

Merry Christmas Twenty Somethings...and all other somethings!

Tick Tock...

Apologies for the blog neglect lately. I'd like to say I've been off doing something really important but the real fact of the matter is I got lazy. Oh and the silly season happened. Anyway enough excuses, today I want to talk about a different kind of time consuming venture...babies.  Sprogs, offspring, spawn- whatever your euphemism they are a huge part of a twenty something woman's life, even if she doesn't have them.

Recently a friend and I were chatting and she reckons that since turning 25 the subject of babies and when they are going to be in her life is brought up all the more often. Rather than asking about where you're going for Christmas or what you're up to this weekend, small talk suddenly becomes small person talk. Just when I thought it couldn't get any more awkward.

As us girls enter our mid to late twenties, whether we have a baby or not becomes less of an observation and more of a judgement. We are told to go to university, have an OE, start a career, get married and then suddenly drop everything to start a family. If you're not knocked up soon after these tasks have been completed then no bonus points for you in the game of life missy!

Not that this is a new observation or anything. In fact most people think that this is an outdated view what with 30 being the new 20 and all but as my friend (and many other women I'm sure) can vouch for, the prospect of child bearing is still a very real pressure on twenty somethings. We may as well get all Flava Flav on it and wear our biological clocks around our necks to deter any unwanted questioning. “Oh hey there's Sam...oh yes, she's still got a couple of years on her. Good. I won't bother asking then”.

Ofcourse there is the other side of the coin to consider. A woman at work is taking maternity leave soon and so jokingly I said “Man! I want one!”, meaning I was jealous of the time off she was getting. It was like I'd said I wanted to bomb the place. Maybe it's because I'm not 25 yet.

There must be something in the water because just last week another of my coworkers declared she is now 'with child'. No she didn't use those words, I just wanted to write that because it sounds funny. With bump is more accurate really. Anyway, with an office full of women our boss (who thinks that babies are “gay”...go figure) jokes that there IS going to be something in the water soon. On more than one occasion he's threatened to lace the water filter with some sort of liquid contraceptive. Least I won't be getting hassled by him anytime soon.

So yeah, babies. Try as I might there isn't really a resolution to this topic. Consider this entry as more of a warning to those of you verging on mid twenties territory like myself. Get a story and stick to it...or buy a clock.

Body of work

This past year has seen quite a few new developments in my life, one of those being that I now floss my teeth. No biggy right? Wrong. Flossing for me is symbolic of my changing attitude towards my body, health, inner strength and life in general...well maybe not but it's still pretty significant ok?

In the past I have been guilty of body neglect. Well that's not entirely true...what my stomach wants it usually gets. Can I help it if my stomach wants a McChicken from time to time? I can't just ignore the poor thing!

No, neglect isn't the word- careless fits much better. As a teen I used to drink on average a litre of coke a day. Looking back one would assume I had a problem, but at the time it was just what I did. I also had a thing for white bread peanut butter sandwiches (as a pre dinner snack!) and did little to no exercise yet still maintained quite a slim figure. Sure it was a gross lifestyle but when you're a teenager and can't see the damage you just don't give a rats. And to be honest if I could go back and meet my 17 year old self I would probably hand her a pie and tell her to live it up while she can.

The point where I started caring about my body image came about when I put on what some people refer to as the 'freshman fifteen' (aka the weight gained in most people's first year of uni). I blame this entirely on Eastside - the bar on campus. The beer was cheap and downing a jug was a much more appealing alternative to learning about semiotics in Media Studies 101. Of course it didn't help that the majority of my drinking buddies were males and keeping up with the boys was mandatory.

By the time Summer rolled around I was growing rolls around my middle. So I joined the gym and have never looked back. I'm not saying that I'm now one of those gym junkie nuts who pretend they just don't like the taste of KFC (ha!) but I am certainly more health conscious.

It started out with the gym which has allowed me to get away with a few too many wines most weekends and takeaways a couple times a week. As I get older though my fitness motivation has begun to factor in the state of my insides. For instance at the moment I'm training for a half marathon. So rather than running to shed the kilos I am now running for fitness sake – madness I know. What's even crazier is that I'm only taking part in the damn thing because of peer pressure from other twenty somethings at work! The sickness is spreading.

Now even though I am actually quite crap at running and resemble a shiny tomato for at least an hour afterwards, I find it relatively easy to motivate myself to train. I guess this is because I can see the results and work towards goals like the marathon, but flossing takes this health business to a whole new level.

In the past I always thought it seemed a little pointless but after living with a dental hygienist student and germaphobe boyfriend I've bought into it. I guess I always knew I should but I just didn't care. Similarly I now remove my eye makeup before bed. Funny how years of waking up as a panda has given me the beginnings of crows feet.

I reckon you can tell how old you are by the length of your pre bedtime routine. As a child it starts out: jamys on, brush teeth, bed. As a twenty something my routine now consists of taking off my makeup, washing my face, then flossing followed by two minutes exactly of teeth brushing (my electric toothbrush has an 'ideal brush time' buzzer....yep).

Jeez just writing that makes me tired. Being good is certainly hard work but this is what I (and I'm sure plenty of other twenty somethings with guilty health consciences) have become.

My name is Amanda and I am officially health conscious. I voluntarily run on a Sunday and am slave to a dictating toothbrush.

A couple of dinks

As a twenty something I often feel like I'm living in a strange space. I'm definately not a child anymore and have no excuse to act like one (dammit) but I'm also not quite a grown up.

Maybe Britney Spears was on to something when she belted out "I'm not a girl, not yet a woman" back in 2001. Although on closer inspection it appears that heartfelt pop number was penned by a forty something Swedish dude called Max. Hmm. Anyway, there are many things about being a twenty something that emphasise that feeling. One of them is being in a long term relationship.

Being in a committed relationship in your twenties is both an odd and fantastic thing. Maybe the strangest part is there's really no accepted term that describes a couple who aren't married or engaged but are beyond the realms of 'friends with benefits' or dating. The best Facebook can come up with is "In a relationship"- it doesn't exactly give you a plethora of options to choose from. Although, I prefer to leave that box blank anyway to avoid the slightest chance of that broken heart symbol making it's way onto my wall, inviting people to post sad emoticons as a gesture of sympathy...ugh.

I actually still haven't found a term which I'm comfortable using for my other half (yep hate that one too). 'Partner' is probably the worst of them all, yet the one most commonly used by twenty somethings. I shudder when I use it but I have been guilty of dropping the "p" bomb on occasion. Mainly because the alternative is 'boyfriend' and that makes it sound as if our relationship consists of giggling when we see each other across the field and calling each other after school to make sure we're still 'going out'.

There's also the fact that the Government won't even recognise a long term relationship unless you've been living together for two years. I feel a bit naughty when I tick the box on the census saying I'm single..."Hey babe, just out on a date with that guy from work because you know technically....". Um no.
Then once the Government recognises that you are in a relationship you get slammed with the 'defacto' label. Who came up with that gem I wonder. It sounds more like an evil robot than a relationship status. Something to look forward to I guess as Tom (aka partner, boyfriend etc) and I have been living together for about five months- with other flatmates mind you (big difference!).

Moving in together was quite a big step for us and has kind of cemented our 'committed' status. When I say we share a bed I can say that we literally share a bed. I bought a brand spanking new one mere months before we bunked in together. Mine had a better base- his had a better mattress so we've mixed and matched. Quite a step really which could lead to some awkwardness if we go our separate ways (my Mum snatched up the leftovers for the spare room at home).

When you think about it, a twenty something relationship is really about firsts. First shared room, first joint account, first time...ahem, oh ok that may have happened earlier on. Recently Tom and I have made our first joint purchase (not counting the paddling pool we invested in last summer) in the form of a DSLR camera.

This expensive new toy is beautiful and makes my amateur point and shoot attempts look magazine worthy. But as great as it is, the fact that it is owned by both of us has caused a bit of tension...like for instance, who gets it for Christmas? We're not quite ready to start choosing which family gets the privilege of our presence for the silly season so figure each to their own is the best policy this year. I've managed to get custody of the camera somehow which scares me a bit. It's like I'm babysitting this thing and if I break it I'm in BIG trouble...maybe I should have asked for the paddling pool instead.

One thing that is brilliant about twenty something relationships is the joint income. Ironically I have never dated more than I have now being in a long term relationship. Mainly because dating is expensive!

With our bank balances combined we are officially DINKS (Double Income No Kids). Our most recent indulgent DINK experience consisted of a weekend in the Hawkes Bay looking out of place at fancy wineries, drinking and eating and well...drinking and eating. It was bliss and gave us a great excuse to use the new toy (which we shared with very little squabbling).

Not to say that twenty something relationships are a walk in the park...or vines. If I've learnt one thing from my experience, being involved with another twenty something is quite the adventure and definately a learning curve. Lesson number one for me being; don't get your feet near the pillows...seriously.

Not just a number

Working in radio often means I get a taste of products that are yet to hit the shops. Recently I was lucky enough (or so I thought) to try the latest energy drink on the market. Unfortunately this taste trial resulted in resounding retching noises from all of the girls in the office, myself included. One of my coworkers described it as the taste you get from licking an envelope...which was alarmingly accurate.

Anyway, this little taste test was also accompanied by a couple of questions from the sales rep thrusting the product our way on behalf of his client (who was thankfully not present for the retching). It turns out that he was only interested in the opinions of a select few of us- that being, those in the 18-24 year old age bracket.

It was then that I realised I'm on the cusp of this 'youth' target market. This time next year I will have graduated from the 18-24 group which I find a little bit scary truth be told. What is it about being 25 that suddenly makes you unattractive to youth brands? Am I going to wake up on my 25th birthday and find myself increasingly interested in mortgage rates and saving my money for more significant purchases than takeaways, pretty tops and booze?

No I am not.

Age to me is simply a perception. A perception that changes with age, ironically. When I think about what being 25 meant to my 10 year old self I would be married, and a vet that moonlights as a ballerina. I saw 25 as the age when I would have sorted out my love life and career, with making babies being next on my to do list. 25 meant I was officially grown up.


Bizarrely enough marketing and advertising companies encourage this notion by cutting off the youth target at 24. In this day and age I don't see that as entirely accurate. When I look at my friends who have turned 25 recently none of them have come out with scary grown up decisions. Turning 25 has simply prompted them to have a decent piss up.

Recently I flew down to a 25th in Wellington because I felt a sense of obligation- it's regarded as a milestone and I wanted to be there to celebrate it with my friends. I guess you could say that 25ths are the new 21sts for my group of friends....just without the parental supervision and drunken speeches about past shags whilst nana stands by awkwardly.

So I guess it's not so scary to be turning 25 after all and when I think back to how I acted at 18 (shudder) it's probably not all bad that I'm soon to be out of the youth age group. It's just a bit strange to me that so called marketing experts haven't cottoned on to the fact that 'twenty something' is a far more attractive age group to target. We spend our money as frivolously as 18 year olds, it's just that we have more of it to throw away...good times.

Riding the wave

I'm feeling rather smug today after rising before 9am and running 10km (on a Sunday I might add!). Although this was certainly not the case yesterday...or the day before. To be honest I'm still recovering from an eventful end of week.

On Thursday night I was lucky enough to attend the NZ Music Awards. We were most definately in the cheap seats but after the ceremony our passes allowed us to mingle with the elite and partake in the free food/booze (which do you think I was more excited about?).

In terms of alcohol consumption I was relatively well behaved (I did however manage to nail TWO Magnum Sandwich icecreams...oops). The reason I didn't want to go all out is because the following day was survey day and being in my twenties I find two big nights in a row quite the mission.

I should probably explain survey day to those of you not in the radio biz. It's basically when the ratings for radio stations in NZ are released (people are selected at random and given survey books to fill out across a six week period letting us know who they listen to and when). And because radio people are radio people, regardless of whether our station achieves a good or bad result, survey day = drinking.

So as I downed my first drink of the day at 10am on Friday (yes I know) I was officially riding the wave. A term coined by my flatmate who has certainly mastered the art of pushing through the pain and drinking to cure a hangover. Unfortunately like climbing trees and crossing your legs, riding the wave is much easier when you're younger.

I fondly remember the days in highschool when you could guzzle back 'rocket fuel' (aka whatever you think your parents won't notice missing from the alcohol cabinet mixed with some fizzy drink) only to wake up ready for the next session. Plus you had an inhouse chef to prepare a fry up for you (cheers Mum).

Student life took riding the wave to a whole new level. There was no such thing as a school night anymore. In fact the biggest night of the week was Wednesday where the Fat Ladies Arms in Wellington (classy establishment that it was) offered $2 drinks for students and we ordered them by the tray full (yes like a fast food restaurant)....ah memories.

You could stop for a break after Wednesday but why bother when the weekend was a mere day away. So more often than not, Wednesday signalled the start of the University weekend- or if you like, the start of the wave.

Like I said though, this riding of the wave business is a struggle and takes it's toll on my twenty something body (and potentially 40 something liver). Even though I refrained at the music awards I still ended up a mess on Friday and once I got back on the board so to speak, it was less riding of a wave than riding a steady slope downhill.

My wipeout I guess you could call it, occurred when I stepped outside the bar where survey party was being held around 11pm only to be refused entry when I tried to come back in. I would like to say that I graciously accepted that it really was time for me to go home but unfortunately no. There were tears. Yes, I officially cried because I wasn't allowed to drink any more alcohol...whilst my peers watched on (just to rub salt into the wound).

It's ironic really how alcohol makes you act like a child at the time of consumption and consequently makes you truly feel your age (or older) the next day. Nature's way of telling twenty somethings to slow down I guess (if only we'd listen).

I'll leave you with this shot of my flatmate after his Friday night and yep, he climbed back on the board for a Saturday night surf...legend.

Jeans + Sneakers = Sneans

This past weekend Tom (the boyfriend) and I sacrificed boozing and the Home and Away omnibus in favour of learning! I know, I'm suprised at myself too. We took part in a two day screenwriting course for a bit of fun and something different. It was really interesting and has definately woken up a part of my brain I haven't used since Uni which is cool, BUT I have to admit the decision to go was not made lightly. You see by taking part in the course I was becoming what used to be the bane of my University existence- a mature student (dun dun dun).

If you've done any tertiary study (and particularly if you studied arts) I'm sure you'll agree that mature students are the worst. I know how ageist that sounds but I'm not discriminating against all older people who choose to pick up an interest paper or two. No, mature students are a certain breed all of their own.

You can pick them pretty easy. They're the ones who sit up the front of every lecture and disrupt class frequently to ask inane questions in an attempt to sound intelligent. The ones who actually read all of the readings rather than skimming over them before a tutorial. The ones who shush you when you dare to so much as ask your neighbour for a pen. The ones who wear sneans.

So it was with some hesitation that I embarked on the course...and I was right to be worried. The first person to arrive was wearing an ankle length knitted cardigan embroidered with a gigantic ghastly flower and...sneans. This woman ticked all the boxes. My judging hat was well and truly on.

Funnily enough this one was the lesser of several evils in the class. There was this one dude (with a hairstyle that screamed "acknowledge I am different!!") who felt the need to voice his opinion loudly, frequently and almost always over the top of the poor lecturer. Not only that, but he felt that we all really needed to know that he just"didn't get" Friends, or American Beauty or (insert several other excellent examples of screenwriting).

Sigh.

I'd like to say that he won the award for most annoying in the class but unfortunately not so. THE mature student of the class happened to sit right.next.to.me.

This one was American and began class by declaring she was tired of people thinking that she was Canadian (said with a deadly serious tone and followed by a filthy look that could only reflect how she saw us- as ignorant New Zealanders). It was a really nice icebreaker and a charming way to introduce one's self to a room full of strangers. Ahem.

Day one of this woman wasn't nearly as bad as day two. Funnily enough she had a very negative view of how the course was going and it was simply not what she had signed up for. Finger tapping, loud sighing and thrusting her head into her desk ensued...seriously. I had to strongly resist the temptation to tell her that it wasn't actually compulsory that she stay but I didn't really want to engage her in any sort of conversation.

Luckily Tom was there so I had someone to exchange looks of disbelief and roll my eyes with. There was also a great moment where this woman tried to bag the movie 'The Blind Side', as a unrealistic portrayal of America in the 60's. Tom took great pleasure in informing her that it was actually set just a few years back and that in fact, the man who it's based on (Michael Oher) currently plays for the NFL. It was definately a high five moment.

To be honest, this woman was just not good at life. Any suspicions were confirmed when she donned prescription sunglasses at the beginning of class due to a contact lens malfunction caused by a perfume-in-the-eye debacle that morning. Oh dear.

But despite these um...colourful characters I still came out of the course feeling inspired and like I'd learnt many things, number one being Uni lecturers may just be the most tolerant people on the planet.

The Overseas Pull...or Push?

Last night I was on a girl date with one of my good friends who is also a self confessed sufferer of twenty something syndrome and midway through our Pinot Noir (Mt Difficulty, Central Otago if you're interested- and you should be because it's very good), we got talking about travel. We both ended up at the same conclusion: that in your twenties, travel (which should inspire feelings of freedom) actually feels like an obligation at times.

Now I have a confession...I'm nearing my mid twenties and not only have I not had an overseas experience but (prepare to gasp) I don't have any set-in-stone plans to partake in one (in the near future anyway). I actually feel a little guilty admitting to that. It makes me feel like less of a twenty something- and actually less like a proper kiwi girl.

It was a great relief to discover that it isn't just me that feels like in New Zealand we must go on an OE and we must do it before we're 30. At 24 I feel like my travelogical clock is ticking!

Some twenty somethings feel this pressure so strongly that they map their entire life plan around their overseas experience. My friend had a flatmate who was so determined that she would find the love of her life overseas that she turned down many a suitor because it 'just wasn't going to happen' here in NZ- I think she's still single.

I guess you could say that the OE is an expectation pressed upon twenty somethings largely by New Zealand media. Oh but on one condition- you must sacrifice any career ambition and work in a filthy pub.

You see if you leave the country and actually manage to get a job in your skilled field then you're the baddy who has given up all loyalty to New Zealand (cue the magazine style current affairs program harping on about the 'brain drain'). Working in a pub on the other hand is painted as the ultimate rite of passage on your OE. This is why so many of us who have potentially spent years establishing a career in New Zealand suddenly settle for cleaning up spew and pulling handles in London.

It's a clever ploy to benefit the New Zealand economy really because one can only take so many drunken Englishmen leering at one's breasts (and people who insist that "awryt" and "innit" are valid words) before New Zealand starts looking pretty damn good.

In saying all this, the fact that OE's are held in such high regard in New Zealand is quite awesome. You can take comfort that when you come crawling back nursing an exhausted credit card, expired visa and a liver that has lost the will to go on, at least your job prospects are improved.

As you embark on the enevitable job hunt you can now include your overseas experience on your CV. Sure, the majority of your experience probably involved drinking yourself into a stupor and sleeping with randoms but these are mere details! Yes, when you return you are instantly regarded as more worldly and thus a more attractive employee- magic.

Not only that, but the OE also serves as a great way to put off the dreaded alternative to revelling in twenty something syndrome- settling down. Spose I should get packing...one of these days.

Hello there!

Welcome to the first Twenty Something Syndrome blog post...and my first blog post ever actually- exciting times! First off I suppose I should define my affliction...

twenty something syndrome:
- noun

typified by a sense of impending obligation to make important life decisions coupled with an intense desire to postpone doing so.


My name is Amanda, I'm 24 years old and I suffer from TSS. As a result of this I guess you could say I'm at a crossroads in life...I just can't decide which direction to go in. Lazy? totally. Comfortable? yep. Fulfilled? nup- well not yet...hence the TSS.

So, a quick idea of where I'm at in the scheme of things. I have a steady job, steady boyfriend and pretty much steady life really. I moved to Auckland from Wellington last December...for love. I can feel you smirking as you read that last bit but I'm one of the lucky people who has followed their heart with absolutely no regrets- eight or so months on I might add. We even live together (a first for both of us who have previously been more than hesitant when it comes to cohabitation- a typical TSS symptom). Okay so I did have a job to go to also (ever the risk taker) but that so ruins the romanticism of it all and to be honest I'm proud of the decision because it was a change and a challenge.

It was actually said love who inspired me to write this blog. We were having one of our 'can't even remember why we're fighting in the first place' arguments the other evening when the TSS reared it's ugly head. I was complaining about being unsatisfied with life and he simply asked me what I wanted to do about it. Try as I might I couldn't answer him. I came to the realisation that at this point, I actually don't know what I want. This led to more frustration and the silent treatment from me (mature for my age obviously...).

This brings me to the most annoying thing about suffering from TSS. As much as you may want to, you just can't feel completely sorry for yourself...for a number of reasons really.


1- you're young and let's face it probably the best looking you're going to be (unless you're destined silver fox material)

2- you can afford to be utterly selfish with your income (you know this when purchases from bars, dairies and restaurants make up 80% of your transactions)

and most importantly...

3- you probably already have the ability to change your situation for yourself- you're just, well...not.


This blog is something I've been putting off for a while so I figured I may as well get my shit together and just do it. What's been delaying the process is that I've never had a 'topic' as such. So I reckon I may as well just write about what I know and what I know is the pressure of being a twenty something. It is probably the scariest and most exciting age you can be because the decisions you make now are likely to be the ones that shape the rest of your life (as much as your seventh form guidance counsellor may have tried to convince you otherwise).

I hope you'll be able to relate to my personal account of a (let's face it, tragically ordinary) twenty something's life. And if for nothing else then reading this blog can serve as a way to procrastinate 'real' life just a little longer...