You just can’t rebel right anymore

I’ve been pre-empting a mid-life crisis for a while now. And I’m only twenty.

I feel I may have failed to fulfil the rebellious potential of my young life. Frankly, I just can’t keep up with the kids. Those kids, who are the same age as me, but like to wear skimpy clothing out even when it’s cold outside, stay awake past half past ten and actually think that being sick after drinking too much is part and parcel of a ‘good night out’. Something must be wrong?

Before I can say ‘cool’, I’m tucked in bed with a hot chocolate and a book at 9 o’clock. And somehow I feel that I’ve let myself down. It struck me most, recently, on a trip up to Leeds to celebrate my friend’s 21st birthday. It started when we arrived and I mentioned that I was feeling tired. That received concerned glances. After all, we were going to some dance-fest club, ‘Gatecrasher’ to see a ‘Basement Jaxx DJ set’, which all entailed staying up until the early hours of the morning and not even leaving the house until midnight.

“Midnight! Isn’t that when we’re supposed to go home?”

That didn’t go down well, and so, my friends spent the majority of the afternoon encouraging me to take short naps in preparation. As it turned out, I managed quite well; I survived the broken glass under my feet and even having my face in someone’s sweating armpit for a while on the dance floor. In fact, I did so well, I was still dancing when two of my friends caved in to high-heel syndrome and couldn’t stand any longer. It was a triumph. A miraculous triumph, but that itself worried me: staying up late dancing shouldn’t be a conquest for a 20-year old.

For years, younger generations have been rebelling against their parents; smoking, drinking, taking drugs, being generally liberal minded and hippy-like. But my parents were those rebels too. So what have I to rebel against? All that’s left for us youngsters to do to shock is perhaps follow current affairs, work hard at our academic studies, say a sensible “no” to drugs and definitely go to bed early. Rubbish. How could my parents do this to me?

My only hope is in a mid-life crisis. Maybe, perhaps, hopefully, I’ll get to thirty and every rebellious dream will come true. But there’s a problem, there’s not much left to shock and there isn’t much I want to revolt about. G.K. Chesterton once said “the modern man in revolt has become practically useless for all purposes of revolt. By rebelling against everything he has lost his right to rebel against anything”. And so, today’s younger generation has lost the right to rebel. My parents have done all the rebelling for me and left me with nothing. Damn, the kids are alright!

Live and let eco-die

Ok, so I try my best. But there are many obstacles. To be a good citizen is so hard these days. Not only is it a sin to be seen scoffing a Mars bar in public in case you get fat and burst into a thousands fat pieces, you have to organise your rubbish into categories of varying levels.

First you have the material division: plastics, cans, cardboard etc. But it’s not that simple, I cannot just put my tin into the bin. I have to check if it’s the right kind of tin, clean, no labels and to do so I have to read the bin-bag, which is difficult at the best of times when various milk-bottles, pizza-boxes and beer cans are rattling in the bottom.

Secondly, the days of rubbish collection are also confusing. Recently a keen-green lady stopped me in the street whilst I was eating a Mars bar. She wanted to give me recycling bags and then asked me if I knew which day was my rubbish collection day. It was the way she said it, tilting her head slightly and smiling like a sin-free, heaven bound, cherub of the eco-world. I did know; it is Wednesday. But I have to put the bins out on Tuesday night and got confused under the pressure; and I had a large mouthful of gooey-Mars bar mess in my mouth, sticking my words together: "Yes, it's Tuesday."

She shook her head: “No it isn’t. Someone doesn’t know their bin-day”. In the middle of the street, opposite the Co-op, I was getting a dressing down from a self-righteous, all-knowing bin-days lady, “it’s Wednesday, for normal rubbish, once fortnightly for recycling green bags alternating with compost white bags and food waste collection is….”, it was similar to when I ask for directions. I always start well; I want, and need, to hear the information. But somewhere in the middle of needing to know and panicking because I’m not concentrating, I never receive any meaningful information. All the colours and days turned into lefts and rights and before I knew it, I was a recycling mess.

Laden with leaflets, different coloured bags and eco-lady’s words rattling in my head, I went home to decipher the rubbish collection system. An hour later and I had learnt that I really needed a pen and paper to make notes. By the time I had completed my masterpiece rota, I didn't care what colour bag went with each rubbish type and so resorted to eating my Mars bar and putting the wrapper in whichever colour bag I pleased.

Live and let eco-die and I can feel guilt free. And if I go to eco-hell, well, at least it will be well organised.

Trials and tribulations

I decided to set this blog up to record the everyday challenges, obstacles, successes and failures we all face.

I hope my experiences can be shared, and related, to others.