Well, God bless you and keep you, my children, all the days of your life. Which are now nearly over.
By the official definition of the demographic as comprising all those born between 1981 and 1996, 2026 is the final year of millennials existing as 20-somethings. The very youngest members of a generation which got used to being lambasted for representing everything wrong with young people – entitled, lazy, full of avocado – will soon no longer be young people. If you listen closely, you can already hear the faint sound of screaming arriving on the wind.
And rightly so. I should not, of course, be saying such a thing. I should be assuring the panicking young(ish) that, contrary to what every instinct, every cell in your body, every neuron in your brain and ounce of social conditioning is telling you, life only gets better from here on out. With age comes wisdom, freedom, prosperity! Style, taste, confidence, the correct signature scent.
Utter balls. Balderdash, if we’re feeling polite. Your DNA, thinky matter, primitive urges and the outer world are all telling you one thing because it is true: the best time of your life is coming to a close. You might stretch it a few years – make it last til 32, 33 possibly – but yeah, shit gets real from pretty much now.
You’re a boy with his finger in the dyke, Samson straining against the temple ceiling, Atlas holding up the sky. Sooner or later, age is going to get you. And proper careers, and children and settling down with proper long-term partners who drive you mad and make you realise relationships are a gamble and you won’t know if it’s paid off until it’s almost too late. You simply live in hope that you’ll hit 75, look back and think: “Yes, on the whole, it was better having him/her around than not” and try not to dwell on the fact that even that can hardly come under the heading of provable fact.
Life will have less and less to recommend it except that death is still worse. But the gap is going to narrow as your joints stiffen and your friends disperse, technology becomes baffling (look at you, shaking your young shiny heads and thinking this won’t happen to you! Oh, you sweet babies! You’ll be complaining to the lad at the Genius bar and rolling your eyes at his nonsense soon enough) and honestly, that’s the way it has to be, really, so that we don’t all go wailing and screaming to the grave. Imagine if everyone felt them and their loved ones were being cut off in their prime. The outrage and the grief would be unmanageable.
No, your twenties are an undoubted peak. You are naturally fit, naturally energetic, naturally interested in sex – you are naturally everything joyful and good. You can process alcohol, your skin is gorgeous and your heart, mind and soul are still alive to both the beauties and the sorrows of the world. You need to wring every scrap of joy, grasp every opportunity, revel in every sensation and exploit every offer of sexual adventure (except that one, I know. Everyone gets that one and needs to draw a line) while you can.
Meanwhile, you need to start planning for the future. It is a future in which you can still be fit, energetic and, I’m told, interested in sex. It just comes less and less naturally. You have to start putting the work in. That means eating right and deliberately exercising. It means drinking water, at first occasionally and then religiously. I presume that once you’re limber and fully hydrated, the sex thing solves itself.
Career-wise, it’s probably too late. You should have spent your twenties working really, really hard. As hard as you played. The importance of a work-life balance is real, but what people neglect to point out is that it should be spread out over an entire professional span. You work hard while you are young and enthusiastic and have the muscle tone that allows you to climb the greasy pole and then life will erode your capacities and restore the balance over time. You are like a pension – investment early on will protect you for years to come when you can no longer earn and protect yourself.
By the way – start a pension. Oh my God, start a pension.
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As you leave your twenties you have to start thinking seriously about whether you want to have children or not as well. Again, you have to think of yourself at 75 and try to imagine whether you would look around an empty house and silent garden and regret not filling them with the sound of childish and grandchildish love and laughter, or regret taking the path that has led to all the little buggers currently disturbing your precious peace and ruining your roses. Again, a gamble.
A pension is not a gamble though. Have you done what I said yet? Come on. Stop dicking about on Vinted and get with the medium-risk-portfolio programme.
My dear millennials (I’m so sorry that you’re ageing out of the system just as I learn to spell you, by the way), enjoy your final twelvemonth in the land of physical flexibility and personal freedom. Here’s to the next few – well-planned, coolly-appraised, Pilates-infused – decades and a well-funded retirement. Happy, if you start now and do it right, birthdays.
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