Can I live?

I’m not quite sure what it is that I am supposed to be doing.

Everyone my age is wifed up, boo’d up, settled down and has at least one toddler on their hip, with another 2.5 running around somewhere in the background. 

I just moved into my first apartment, I’ve never lived alone—ever. I go out—a lot. I go out drinking on weeknights. My disposable income goes to my wanderlust fund and my wardrobe. I contemplate the sexiness of outfits or how age appropriate they are. I bought overalls today. “Can I wear these? I kinda like them,” I asked my sister. “You can get away with anything,” she responds. “HOW OLD AM I?” I silently ask myself… “Fuckit,” I quickly respond, “I CAN get away with these.”

I feel as though the world is either judging me or pitying me.

For what? Can I live?

I would happily be paying mortgage too, maybe potty training baby no.1, while I multi-task 4 loads of laundry and while dinner is in the oven. I would ungrudgingly accept that life if it was my fate, but it isn’t…

My once super sequential life took a few unexpected turns. In result I am a little selfish, slightly reckless (at the appropriate times) and quick to accept company with those who fit into my adjusted lifestyle. 

What’s my alternative? Stay at home? Live simply? Join a convent?

It’s unclear to me. So I do what I feel is right, even if that means I’m out a little too late on a school night, had one more drink than I should, or dash out of the house for almost every invite presented to me.

Trust me, I’m praying for the never-ending Netflix marathons, the opportunity to cook for at least 2 and the reason to turn way wayyy waayyyyyy down. 

Way wayyy wayyyyyy down. Swear.