There’s nothing more humbling than walking into a nightclub and realising that you are your friends are the oldest people in the crowd. It seems ridiculous to say it that at 22, but 18-year-olds genuinely view us as ancient monuments. They’ll say hurtful things like: “Wait…no way, you don’t look 22”, and smile like they’ve just made the OAP on the dancefloor feel better about herself. I get it, I used to look at people who had finished college as these fully formed beings, so mature and world-wise. I can confirm, being at this stage of life is not as glamorous as I had pictured it being, as a gentle teen. It’s less martinis and contributing to your pension, more struggling to keep tabs on which country each of your friends is moving to. I often think that I am no different than a teen, and then I talk to one and realise how desperately uncool I have become over the years. The disjunction is glaring when I walk into the wrong nightclub, yes. But nothing will make me feel my age as much as my relationship with social media. I am now at an age where it feels wrong
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