This piece was written by a close friend of mine.
My friend Amy is a strange coalescence of factors. One night Amy will be swinging wildly from one side of the dancefloor to the other, hair flying out behind her as a smile spreads so wide it threatens to consume her face, wearing the expression of joy only enjoyed by the very, very drunk. An hour later it’s worn off, she is drinking water and admonishing me to do the same, in order to avoid the inevitable headache the next day. Amy is a child and an adult in one. She is so much better and more mature and kind and hardworking and self reliant than I can ever hope to be. And she is also still prone to bicker with me, eat too much pizza, and giggle uncontrollably at phallic references.
Amy and I are sitting in a hostel in Dublin, between two phases of life, treading water in an ocean of doubt. We have left childhood behind in a haze of tears and beers and false friends and many, many false starts. We have made enough mistakes to feel like we know a thing or two. We are quintessential youth, and our opinions are mountains from which we look mightily down upon the world with the invincibility of youth. At forty, they will be the caves in which we cower.
I am often struck by the worrying realisation that however much of a child Amy is, I am regressed further than she. I am seven steps behind Amy’s journey to adulthood, so I must appear comical indeed.
But I am glad that in this strange waiting room between one thing and the next, this penultimate peril, this precipice before The Rest Of Our Lives and the day when maybe we will finally be able to answer the professors and parents who ask us “What Are You Going To Do With Your Life?” we have each other. We have each other for piggybacks and 3am large pizzas and doubts and gossiping and endless, endless bickering.
My friend Amy is in the prime of her youth, and luckily I am right here beside her.