Personal

I used primer. I never user primer. I also used my foundation brush, instead of my fingers. Eyelash curlers in hand, I realised I might be taking this too seriously for a girl who has used the same Boots-own brand BB cream for two years and never understood the appeal of ‘nude’ lipsticks. I put the eyelash curlers back, brushed my skirt down, turned to my boyfriend and asked how I looked.

‘Like you’re going for a date’.

Good. That’s a constructive compliment from a man who’s go-to response is usually ‘fine‘. (Ah, ‘fine‘. What every girls dreaming of looking like.) Off I scrabbled, into the hazy Putney winter sun.

Frazzled as I was, I was just heading off for a Sunday brunch with a friend. The nerves- though unexpected and completely undue- had come on as I was readying to leave the house, as though this was an interview rather than a buffet. In my haste to not be late, I’d developed a bubbling uncertainty.

This was the first time I had spent with this particular person alone. What if it went, well, terribly? What if when we sat down across from the all you can eat buffet line up and had resolutely NOTHING in common?  This was increasingly feeling like a first date- like a Channel Four TV crew were going to rush on and powder my face/rig me with a GoPro any second. Dispatches: A Grown Woman Tries to Make a Friend.

They arrived. We had a wonderful lunch together- laughed and chatted and stuffed ourselves silly and plotted our next dinner party. No nerves required, whatsoever, and I almost instantly forgot that I’d felt anything silly at all.

This- this sensation- goes to show how odd I have found making friends since turning twenty. Now I do not spend time in packed meat-market clubs twirling around with a VK in hand, or have a well meaning teacher doling out group presentations, I have come to rely on work and Twitter for meeting new people, both of which come with their own restrictions (one doesn’t want to hear from me post 6pm on Fridays, one is potentially a masquerading bot).

Where do all my new friends come from now I’m post-education? Now I’m in a big city without my old reliable groups to call upon for coffees and outfit lending? Am I going to dwindle in relationships from here on in, pestering the same people on Whatsapp to go to brunch until they snap and all change their numbers, collectively, until I’m left eating avo on toast with no one?

My early twenties have been about meeting people in ways I’m not used to yet. People that intern at my work, people that write blogs I love, people that flatshared with other friends. People that are parents, are artists, are clients, are bosses, are from the other side of the world, are half or twice my age. I might not be meeting people on the same course, from the same town, in the same club and from the same background the way you do when you’re at school/university- but that doesn’t mean these relationships are any less valuable.

I think that that’s where this feeling comes about- once you hit the big two-oh and propel yourself away from traditional friendship-enducing hotspots (playgrounds, houseparties in halls, etc)- you kinda assume you’ve this friend thing nailed. Then, it dawns, that the people you have things in common with, your potential BFFs, don’t hang out in convenient hubs anymore. They’re far spread across all aspects of your life now. You have to go get them yourself.

So that’s what I’ll be doing, and I’m not going to let myself make it weird. Brunch, anyone?

As a grown up- which I am, broadly, depending on who you ask and how much toothpaste I’ve spilt on my shirt- it can be a little bit embarrassing to be such a fangirl.

I’m plagued by enthusiasm for bloggers and vloggers, which is an odd problem for someone masquerading as a functioning adult. But today, instead of chastising myself, I’m here to reclaim fangirling. Reclaim it for the adults, for the over twenties, for professionals. Fangirling is ours too.

The stereotype of the fangirl is usually this: emotional pre-teen, surrounded by Zoella merchandise, weeping over Zayn and forming a Twitter army against anyone who says a sponsored post was lame. Neurotic, naive and gullible.

Feminist side note time! Isn’t it super cute how we mock and lambast young girl’s passion? It’s a good job young boys don’t get into Twitter fights over football matches, or spend their money on celeb-endorsed products, otherwise we’d have to bemoan their interests and passions too!

But here I am. With bills to pay, a nine to five, having had a serious conversation about pensions already, flushed with excitement because a blogger RT-d my tweet. Is this pathetic? Am I doling out undue attention to narcissists?

No. No I am not. I refuse to have my excitement and enthusiasm crushed. Unlike the tween Belieber, the #Zalfie screenshotter, I am an adult. And the good thing about being an adult is that I can look anyone who is too-cool-for-school about everything square in the eye and say ‘Fuck off. I don’t care’.

Bring me your faves. Tell me your OTPs. Show me your edits. Send me your screenshots of your tweets being faved. Join me in a chorus of ‘I love your work!’. I want it all.

Let’s lose the attitude that showing nerd-like enthusiasm for anything, being excited, squeeling, or eagerness is a negative. Firstly, it devalues the work, creativity and effort bloggers and vloggers put in- a damnsite more than various ‘real’ celebrities. Secondly, please stop treating joy as lame.

I contend that ‘fangirling’ is joy in action. Joy, and being joyful, is supposed to be uncontainable. It’s supposed to be happy. It’s fucking joy for god’s sake. And just because I’m past sixteen doesn’t mean I can’t revel in it- even if it’s over meeting someone with a million Instagram followers.

I recently met two bloggers I have been reading for years at The Quarter Club: Satisfaction Salon. When I spotted them- and this is no exaggeration- my heart jumped. I’m not ashamed of that- two women I admire and had never spoken to before were yards away from me, ripe for my giddy hugging, and I fangirled.

In all honestly, I was made up- but I wouldn’t have been if I hadn’t accepted the joy offered to me by fangirling- and I’ll be damned if that was denied to be for the sake of being ‘cool’. That ship has sailed, sonny.