“So Many Women Are Still Waiting To Find The Guy Who Is Willing To Drink The Fat…”

I always watch Friends when I need to relax. As I’m sure millions of people do. Right now, this is no different. I’ve thrown the first season on in the background while I write my book. It is normally so familiar, with no shock factors… that is, until right now.

As I typed away, adding to my 44,000 word mark (woohoo!) I looked up, for an extra serotonin boost, not knowing what would follow. To my horror, they were all sitting in Central Perk, discussing ages. This was when the horror set in – as Monica confidently stated: “I am 26.”

She. Is. 26. Yikes. So this is why it’s like I’m always stuck in second gear. This is why it hasn’t been my day, my week, my month, or even my year. I am two years older than season one Monica.

The sheer overwhelming shock itself didn’t really surprise me, I am being a little bit dramatic about that, because I always knew the show started when they were in their twenties. I just didn’t need Monica to tell me that right now, as I ponder whether these 44,000 words I have written, about a twenty-something dealing with modern dating and men going weird, will ever get a yes in the publishing world. Will twenty-something women ever get to meet my main character?

But then I had to reel the worry back in. I can’t do this again, get caught up in the timeline stress, because it’s completely fictional. There is no right or wrong path in life, no set seasons with a set cast. If we put me at season two or three of my struggles, there’s a lot more to happen before my season 10 finale. Nobody has it all figured out, that’s why we like watching Friends.

Friends is so relatable, but also not. I know people can’t really relate to the big New York apartment, so many women are still waiting to find the guy who is willing to drink the fat, and we all love passing time in our favourite coffee shop. Some days we have the mature energy of Richard, other days we have the chaos of The Holiday Armadillo.

Right now, I feel like I’m wobbling around with the turkey on my head, but that’s okay. Maybe every season of our life is absolutely essential for the magic of the plot, I know they have been for me so far. So let’s embrace where we are, rather than diving headfirst into panic mode.

I mean, I’m fine. I don’t know why it’s coming out all loud and squeaky.

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