all of that crap will be behind you. While that might have been true once upon a time, we millennials have things so much tougher now that social networks are a thing. Everyone from your school days is going to want to keep in touch with you on Facebook – even the bullies, bizarrely – and we all know that Facebook is nothing but a platform for boasting. So now these childhood rivals follow you into your grown-up years, and serve as a reminder of how badly you’re doing at life compared to them.
Take my secondary school bestie, Megan, for example. Megan and I met in nursery and our lives pretty much mirrored one another until one day, suddenly, they didn’t. We both lived on pretty little cul-de-sacs with our happily married parents, we were both into the same hobbies and the same music, and we were even both on the chubby side all the way through school.
Both tomboys through middle school before going all-out punk in secondary school. Both ash blondes. We were one and the same until sometime during sixth form when Megan got her first boyfriend. She’d had boyfriends throughout her teens but this was different because Megan’s new boyfriend was older – much older – we were seventeen and he was about to turn thirty. He had a job, his own house and the social life of a grown-up. When Megan started going out with him, not only did she abandon being my fun friend, but it aged her like a fifty-a-day smoking habit too – which is incidentally a habit she took up because he did. Over the past ten years I have watched my friend fly through the motions of growing up, not unlike the way I do when I get bored playing The Sims while I’m trying to kill time on the computer at work. Megan left school, moved in with him, got engaged, got married and had a couple of kids.
So Megan isn’t just my former bestie, she is symbolic of the life goals someone at some point decided that we, as women, are supposed to be achieving as adults. Find a man, settle down, put whatever kind of career you have on hold and pop out some babies. I am doing terribly on all counts, and there Megan is, every time I log on to Facebook, posting photos of her newest smiling baby or the latest addition to the work she’s having done to her kitchen that never seems to be finished. She’s like an alternative reality version of myself, if I’d made different (better?) life choices. I don’t own my own home; I am in the weird position of both having never been in a traditional serious relationship while at the same time not being truly single. And as for kids, well, in the presence of the truly annoying ones you often find splashing in puddles next to you while you’re wearing a white dress or yelling in your ear on a train, if you listen carefully, you can sometimes hear my tubes attempting to tie themselves.
My work day today has so far consisted of aimlessly scrolling through Facebook – breaking only to answer the occasional phone call while Caroline is away from her desk – looking at everyone post all their stupid shit. Photos from nights out, their kids doing cute stuff, discussing their wedding plans and even taking those stupid quizzes – you know the ones: Which Friends character would you be? What’s your spirit animal? Are you probably going to die single and alone? I don’t need to take a silly quiz to answer those questions for me. I’d be perennially single, early series Chandler, with nothing but my sense of humour to keep me warm at night. My spirit animal would be a mouse, a timid, lonely, little mouse. And the mood I’m in today, I can confidently predict that I will in fact die alone. Still, without all the fun life events to populate my profile, a few annoying quiz result posts would at least remind people that I’m alive. My online presence is fading, fast.
‘Do you need a licence to ride a forklift, Candy?’
I am snapped from my increasingly depressive thoughts by a Geordie accent.
‘Do you need a licence to drive a forklift?’ I correct him as I repeat his question in an attempt to remind him that a forklift isn’t in fact a ride he can put 20p in to ‘have a go’ on. ‘I’d imagine you need some kind of certificate of competency before they’ll let you zip around the warehouse on one.’
‘Crap. That’s what Rick said,’ he replies with a disappointed sigh.
Rick is the warehouse manager. The new guy is here working in the IT department; there’s no need for him to even be in the warehouse, let alone ‘riding’ one of the forklifts.
I avert my eyes, look back at my screen and begin typing an email that I won’t in fact send to anyone, but I want Geordie Shore here to think that I am hard at work and leave me alone. He’s only been here a little over a week, and on his very first day he actually asked me out on a date. He’s that sure of himself, because he’s gorgeous and he knows it. So far he’s managed to make time to sit on my desk and annoy me every single day. I try to ignore him, the way the school swot blocks out the annoying antics of the class clown, and I’m not doing too badly. To be honest, I couldn’t even tell you his name – in my head, I’ve been calling him Geordie Shore. Everyone gets an unflattering nickname in my head. I do try to keep all of this stuff locked away in my head, though, never to be uttered out loud.
When I met Will’s wife, Stephanie, for the first time, I was blown away by how perfect she was. She was effortlessly classy, ladylike, and she always looked flawless. I decided then that I needed to be more like her so I made a real effort to be as close to perfection as possible. This only fuels the need for my eternal diet, my religious exercise routine and the real effort I make to be this wonderfully behaved, reserved little lady – because clearly that’s Will’s type – and I’ve even managed to master keeping a lid on the casual swearing habit that I’d picked up from Amy. Even when no one is watching, I strive to be as ladylike as possible, in the hope that one day it will truly be second nature. I do still feel like I’m forcing it – just a little. Inside my head is a different story, however. Even my thoughts are peppered with expletives, and some of the terrible things I think about people are far from ladylike.
I wouldn’t say that Stephanie had let herself go – Will would, though. After having a couple of kids, Stephanie has put a little bit of weight on. She’s still classy and beautiful, but when I hear Will talking about her like she’s a mess, it makes me even more careful to keep in good shape.
The new guy is still standing in front of me, his hands in his pockets, squirming and twisting his ankles like a fidgety child who has been called to see the headmaster.
‘Did you want something?’ I ask in an attempt to make him go away quicker.
‘I had a message to pop up, something about some changes to the…’ he begins to explain before stopping abruptly. Perhaps the look on my face is representative of how boring that sounded.
‘That wasn’t me, it’ll have been Sweet Caroline,’ I tell him. ‘She’s just gone for her lunch.’
‘Why do you call her Sweet Caroline?’ He laughs.
Oh shit, did I say that out loud? That’s never happened to me before.
‘Erm, because she isn’t,’ I admit truthfully, my mind blank of any other logical explanation.
New guy cracks up laughing.
‘I thought it might because she puts those doughnuts out in the staffroom every morning,’ he replies.
‘Yes, that would have been a better explanation, wouldn’t it?’ I reply, almost for my own benefit.
‘Do you mind if I wait around for her?’
‘Knock yourself out,’ I reply.
He takes a seat at her desk and twirls in her chair.
I continue to type nothing in particular so he doesn’t speak to me, and so that I can get on with all my non-existent work.
I try not to give it too much thought, because I don’t want to admit it, not even to myself, but it sometimes feels like the only reason Will didn’t fire me was because he wanted to keep me around. On paper I am his assistant. The thing is, he already has Caroline working as his secretary, and she seems to tick all the boxes an assistant would too. I think Caroline thinks I am useless to the company and massively overpaid for the work I do. Caroline is probably right in thinking this. Still, that’s no reason for her to be as rude to me as she is. Sometimes I think it’s because she knows about Will and me. I suppose