Why being 26 is better than 20, 16 or whatever

Okay, I feel old. Not mature — just old. My student hall neighbors are shouting around the corner while I am feeling so delighted and pleased with some academic reading and a bowl of gnocchi. A week ago I sold my last-chance-to-buy ticket for a last-chance-to-visit party because of the bronchitis (which was a completely made up excuse). That may have seemed serious and quite reasonable if only I did not have a sore throat every three days and a flu every other week according to some mysterious schedule. Had I canceled all the parties with such a miserable reason, I wouldn’t have had any fun ever.

I share a kitchen with BA kids who I guess can only digest some soda and precooked pasta from a Tesco nearby. At least it looks like their high sugar content diet is very strict, because one can hardly find anything green on their fridge shelves. Every time I grate some carrots for a dinner salad the heavy smell of Red Bull and judgment fills up the room.

All my friends in London are at least 30 y.o., which is quite safe. You literally gulp down any personal complaints about a bizarre professor, low marks for an essay, an expensive sandwich in the canteen or a bitchy arriviste in your group since nobody cares. For the first time I don’t treat studying as competition, socialisation or obligation. Quite a feeling, I should admit!

I have just turned 26, yet nothing has really changed in my life. Being a student after working for 9 years is weird, however, I’m not the oldest in the group. And again: nobody really cares. You only start feeling that you are actually getting older when some dressy girl in the student cafe is talking so loud and overemotional that you immediately sink in thousands exaggerated details of her boyfriend’s Instagram chat. Blessing the 26, I finally got rid of this shit and now can enjoy my gnocchi.