Taking My Younger Self Out for Coffee
Have you come across the current internet trend titled “Taking my younger self out for coffee”? If the word “perchance” didn’t make you raise an eyebrow, perhaps you haven’t. But the concept is fairly self-explanatory. It involves a person contemplating what it would be like to share a coffee with their younger self, whether from a decade, two, or even three decades ago. This reflective exercise typically includes imparting wisdom, discussing personal growth, and generally pondering the twists and turns of life.
Here’s my take on it. Dear young Lucy Mangan, by 2025, you will find yourself in a situation where a simple roof repair may lead you into a seemingly never-ending existential crisis. To be fair, it’s not just the roof repair that sets the stage for this drama. What started as a single slipped tile—a minor inconvenience—quickly escalated (as these things tend to do, a fact I shall make sure to convey to young Lucy, so she can begin saving her Sainsbury’s Saturday girl wages accordingly). This innocent tile revelation soon revealed the shocking truth: £7,500 worth of necessary repairs.
Just 48 hours later, a defunct boiler added to the chaos, resulting in three days devoid of heating (you’ll have to resort to using the immersion heater if you dare take a shower in a bathroom that feels like a winter wonderland, long after the sun has graced the outside world). And, as if that wasn’t enough, a rat made an appearance in the compost bin. So, it turns out that three revelations are all it takes to unravel me completely. Four, if you consider the rat twice, which I do, since mice are troublesome enough, but a rat? Oh dear God.
Each new discovery has hit my psyche like a lumberjack’s axe strikes a small tree. The sight of that rat, despite the pest control man’s calm demeanor and his reassuring words that anyone with a collection of decomposing garden refuse could expect to find a rodent or two seeking winter shelter there, was the final splintering blow. I am felled.
What is going on? Where has my resilience gone? How can I claim to be a functioning adult if just three minor issues can reduce me to an anxiety-ridden wreck, huddled under a blanket on the sofa, mumbling to myself while staring blankly at a spot on the wall? I desperately try to block out the sounds of workmen stripping felt and rotten battens above me, while others wrench out the boiler below me, or imagine that whiskered snout poking out from a warm bin as I dispose of the perfectly satisfactory results of a half-hour’s weeding.
And I feel terrible for feeling so terrible. How spoiled am I that these issues – merely practical, not affecting anyone I love, not involving illness or threats to life (apart from the roof, if that slipped tile hadn’t alerted us in time), and that we can afford to fix without sacrificing a mortgage payment or selling a cat – are enough to send me spiraling into the fetal position?
It’s a myth that we become tougher as we age. In fact, it might be a myth that we improve in any way as we grow older. Just as our flesh loses its firmness and elasticity, so too do our minds and souls. Unfortunately, I’m at a loss as to what the equivalent of collagen supplements might be for repairing the damage done to those vital parts of ourselves.
My patience, once legendary, has also vanished. I can no longer tolerate even the slightest sartorial discomfort, any delay, or any scene on television that involves a character undergoing even the slightest suffering. It’s not merely sloth or exhaustion—though those factors play a role—it’s a deeply rooted need for self-preservation. I find myself glued to the sofa, binge-watching nothing but Brooklyn Nine-Nine reruns every night. It’s an effort to shield the last remnants of my emotional stability from being swept away by even the most trivial further assaults from the outside world.
My fundamental affliction is one shared by many: the awareness of being an adult in a godless universe. Every slipped tile, every strange knocking sound from a boiler (trust me—don’t ignore it. You already know it’s not good, and it’s only going to escalate to an £800-1200 nightmare) serves as a reminder of our inherent powerlessness. The cosmos can throw anything it desires at us at any moment, and we are left defenseless. All we can do is hope to stay lucky.
How am I supposed to exist in this state, with the metaphorical roof torn off and my vulnerabilities exposed to the elements at all times? I must find a way to rebuild my defenses—stronger, better, and ideally with a breathable membrane that prevents the battens from becoming waterlogged and crumbling unseen beneath it this time.
I apologize; I may have crossed some wires there. But the principle remains valid. The question is, who do I call for repairs? My best guess is the lovely rat man, I suspect.
And that, dear young Lucy, is where we currently stand.
