Hey Midults, accidents happen.
We believe in grabbing every napportunity. Every delicious little lie down, even the 15-minute ones when you are pretending to phone a sick relative. But then there are those slightly disorientating nap-cidents when you wake up on the sofa and it’s 11.45pm and you are so cold. And stiff. And somehow damp.
You went for a touch up, little on the sides, just a bit of neatness, so that when you wear a swimsuit it isn’t a huge shock for everyone – and you end up with a Hitler’s moustache over a basically bare front-bottom.
Yes, you are going to take the tube, yes it’s direct, and you are two seconds from the station? Oops your thumb slipped into the Uber app. Again. And again.
That weird moment when people are talking about something and you are start spouting facts. Statistics. Percentages. “I think you’ll find that my facts are accurate, Geoff.” Everyone looks at you impressed. You hope they don’t google and check.
When out of terrible nerves you hit perform mode and there you are channeling Cameron from Modern Family or Barbra Streisand in Funny Girl or Sally Field’s Oscar speech, ‘You love me, you really love me.’ You are camper than a row of tents. And people who know you are looking at you oddly and people who don’t think you are brilliant. Or do they? Please make it stop.
In the heat of the moment, possibly a drunken one, or a hormonal ‘I am just loving the vibe right now’ one, you make a deal. A promise. A pact: A holiday. A tattoo. A marathon. In the cold light of sanity you sincerely regret this pact and briefly consider moving to Yorkshire.
You walk past the supermarket and you need some satsumas, oh and some fabric softener, and you could pick up a pizza for tomorrow and what if you run out of avocados? What then????? And so you pop in and wearily concede the need for another plastic. You can’t fully open the kitchen cupboard door anymore because of all the bags for life behind it, in fact it does this weird springy thing and hits you every time you go past. Soon you won’t be able to get into the house. When you die you’ll be in the paper in a feature titled ‘Bag hoarder suffocates on bags for life‘.