Isn’t being a grown-up fun? Who doesn’t love being able to order pizza at 3am, or staying in bed all weekend, or spending all your money on pretty clothes, because you can? Preach. I know I do.

Okay, yes: there are some perks to being an adult. However, there are some mature, grown-up things that absolutely suck – and you don’t realise they do until you’re doing them. Confused? Me too: take a look below to join me in hating on being an adult…

cardigan: river island | top: river island


I’m currently looking for a holiday, and let me tell you: it’s the most draining experience ever. The first five minutes is fun, where you’re like OOH SHALL WE GET A PRIVATE POOL?, and then it goes downhill; why are the flights at 5am? Why is the transfer five hours? Why is there a charge of £60 just for us to sit next to each other on the plane? And then you go on TripAdvisor, and it all descends into chaos – that perfect resort you think you’ve found is actually a rat-infested hovel that gave the last group of holidaymakers dysentery. By the time you’ve found a holiday which meets all of your criteria, you’re past caring and just want to sit in the beer garden of the nearest Wetherspoons for a week instead.


I’m not saying that, when you’re younger, being ill doesn’t suck. It does. But as an adult, it’s so much worse. In your head, it’ll be duvet days off work and crappy daytime TV; in reality, it’s the calling-in-sick guilt (aka: making yourself sound sicker on the phone so no-one thinks you’re skiving); checking your emails in a Night-Nurse induced state and CCing in the CEO to your weekly roundup by mistake; realising that you’ll have to make your own ill food – Mum, where you at? – and that all you’ve got in the fridge is a bag of potatoes and half a lemon; over-zealous self-medicating, where you down half a bottle of cough syrup then get hallucinations; and realising that you’ll be the one having to dry-clean the gross dressing gown you’ve been wearing all day. (Yuck. I’m gross.) TBH, going into work and infecting the rest of the office sounds more appealing.


I start the week off with the best of intentions; sometimes, I even go as far as to GOOGLE DELICIOUS RECIPES I can whip up, Nigella-style, after work. And that’s usually about as far as it gets, because I’ll get in from the office and die quietly in front of The Kardashians, a Dominos menu clutched in my sweaty little hand. Seriously: why is cooking such a ballache? Can I have a personal chef plz?


When I was younger, I defo thought I’d enjoy the whole hair-and-makeup shebang more. Don’t get me wrong – getting ready for a night out is the bees’ knees, and I could spend all day contouring when I’ve got all the time in the world; but when I’m already late on Monday morning and discover my foundation’s dried out, or my roots look stripier than Katie Price’s tan, or my eyebrows have started to meet in the middle and there’s a definite hint of a ‘tash going on, I just CBA. And then there’s the cost of everything: my foundation costs £38. THIRTY EIGHT ENGLISH POUNDS that I always resent paying, especially when I still look like me and not Gigi Hadid. Between visible hair-extension clips and wonky brows, I’m losing the will to live.


Ahh, Sunday. The day of rest. Ish. Because, when you’re an adult, Sundays are spent in two ways: hungover, or in a mild state of panic that you’ve only got twenty-four hours until you’re back in the cess-pit which is your office. Also, Sundays are the ubiquitous day for chores, shops closing early and no next-day delivery, so they suck all round.


I always thought being an adult would be FUN and SPONTANEOUS, but I’ve now realised that just keeping myself alive is a chore in itself. There is a constant stream of worry in my head – have I left the cooker on? Is there enough petrol in my car? Have I washed my clothes for work tomorrow? – and it’s exhausting. Everything is EFFORT and VERY TIME CONSUMING: washing my hair takes about four days. Doing a big shop is an entire evening’s worth of activity. Taking the bin out should take thirty seconds, but it usually splits in the hall. Vacuuming is a never-ending whirlwind of pain. Seriously – just keeping myself hydrated, vaguely presentable and awake is a full-time job. Why did I think being an adult would be the dream, though?

If you’re hating on being grown-up like me, take a look at my other posts bashing life as an adult; this one here and this one too. Go on: you know you want to.

almost couture - manchester fashion blog



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