How Not to Adult: Early draft-chapters 1-2A Story by New YorkshireThis is my first attempt at a novel. Any and all feedback is welcome. (I am aware that comic sans appears juvenile, but my dyslexic brain hates it the least)Nobody actually tells you how to
adult. You’re just expected to pick it up along the way as you grow from your
teens, into your twenties and through your thirties until you suddenly find
yourself a metaphorical charred carcass smoldering in the ruins of what should
have been the prime of your life. For
me, the initial spark came from a guy. Yes, I know, how stereotypical of me,
but its true. I was absolutely, completely and dangerously drawn to him. He was
like a siren and his song, apparently, captivated me so completely that I
forgot who I was. There was no ship for me to crash, but I willingly drowned
nonetheless. I can’t event blame him,
you know, because really, if I’m being honest, and that’s what this is all
about, it was me. I willingly put my life in his hands and then, for a very
long time, believed he was the one who sailed my ship straight for the reef. 1 I suppose I should start when I
thought that my life was at a high. I was in my mid-20s and loving life. I
thought I had it all: a great job as a veterinarian, my dream job; a house that
I could not believe I was able to afford the mortgage on; a great group of
friends with Jane as my focal point, we had been friends from day 1 at high
school; and the loves of my life, my two dogs Merry and Pippin. I had been working at Marsh
Veterinary Surgery for two years and had settled into a great routine. While I
was at work, I got to help heal sick or injured animals, people’s babies, their
life companions, and nothing made my day more than when I was able to send
someone home with their beloved pet, healthy or on the way to healing. One day, I had just sent the
Johnsons home with their poodle, Fortnight (they let the kids name him) giving
me the evil eyes because I bestowed upon him the Cone of Shame -- it was the
third time I had seen Jeff that week for the same problem; he wouldn’t leave the
stitches on his leg alone, so we had to resort to the cone�"when my the director
of the surgery called me into her office. I could tell by her face that this
was not going to be a pleasant meeting for me. I sat, my leg twitching and my
fingers working at my nails a million miles a minute, but kept my face calm and
open. “Caroline” she started, “how many
times did the Johnsons come in this week? “ “This was their third visit.” I
stated, a little confused that she was focusing on the Johnsons and Fortnight.
“Is that a problem?” “Well, not if the Johnsons are
flush with cash that they don’t mind wasting.” She gave me a pointed look. “Why
was he back here three times? You performed a very minor procedure. He should
be running through the meadows by now.” “Well, he kept pulling his
stitches out. I had to replace them again today.” I was really getting confused
as to why she was still speaking to me like I had done something wrong. Had I
done something wrong? I have never been one to stew, so I just came out with
it. “Have I done something wrong?” “Not necessarily wrong, but
short-sighted.” She sighed. She had said these words to me more than once in
the two years I was working with her. “You know this dog. You know he will chew
through the protective sock and bandage to get at his stitches. Why not give
him the cone from day one?” Ah, so I had done something
wrong. “I was working with the Johnsons, who don’t like to put him in it; he
really does hate it.” I stated, not
defending myself, but starting to feel emotional that my judgement was being
questioned. “Next time, just be firm with
them. Tell them that he must wear it from the outset and save them the money
and us the time that could be better used seeing to other animals in this very
busy and very oversubscribed surgery.” For a second or two, I could only
nod at this; I was afraid that if I spoke right away, that wobbly feeling that
was wavering in my chest might fall out of my mouth and sound like tears. This
was definitely not something to get upset about. After a very large swallow, I
managed to say clearly without any wobble in my voice. “Yes. Got it. It won’t
happen again.” She nodded once and I was dismissed. Well, that was just how I
wanted my day to finish. Luckily, I didn’t have to pretend to be OK with anyone
else. I headed to the back, changed into my home clothes (we wear scrubs during
surgery), located my phone and found Jane on Whatsapp. Just
had another ‘Caroline fucked up’ conversation with Jane: What did you do this time, smile
at a customer who’s hamster you just ‘put to sleep’? Not
even close! I didn’t insist on the Cone of Shame! (frowning sad emoji) Jane: Ugh! Well, I’ve got a bottle of
in wine the fridge and I’ll swing by Dalucci’s for a large pepperoni. See you
in an hour. Make
it 2, I’ve got to walk the Hobbits. You’re
an absolute star! What would I do without you? Jane: Wallow in self pitty, pizza-less
and wine-less. (Winky face emoji) See you soon. That was the thing about Jane.
She was always there when I needed her. She just knew! She also lived the next
street over from me so even if we finished the bottle of wine she brought, and
the one I myself had in the fridge, she would walk home�"or stay the night,
which was also a regular occurrence with us. She also got that I needed my time
walking Merry and Pippin, my two mongrels. Even if Jane wasn’t coming over for
emergency pizza night, I would have been fine after taking them on their walk.
We went through the field, through the woods, around Greenhead Park and back
again. That took a good hour, if not an hour and half if they were feeling
extra mischievous. (Seriously, what was I thinking when I named them? Didn’t I
know they’d be trouble?!) I was fine by the time Jane got
to mine, but I cheerfully accepted her company and offering of comfort pizza
nonetheless. I do clearly remember her asking if I was happy working as a vet.
My response was “of course!” because I really did love it; I just didn’t like
being pulled up on every tiny error I made. “Well, we can forget all about it
tomorrow night; we’re not staying in; we’re having a girls’ night. You need to
DANCE those blues away!” “You’ve already texted the girls,
haven’t you?” I responded, with a smirk on my face. She merely smiled in
response as she put her coat on to walk home. 2. I’ve slipped into reminiscing
about Jane and my dogs rather than getting to the point. So here it goes. Take
a deep breath, Caroline. The guy. The one I said was where everything started
from. Ben Smith. My siren who I willingly drowned my own self for. The strange
thing is that when I first met him, I did not find anything even remotely
interesting about him. I only met him by chance. Jane had managed to bully me
into getting a savings account. I know, I know, a 20-something woman with a
successful career, making a good salary without even a savings account is
heresy. Heresy to the Gods of Finance and Modern Living. At least that’s how
Jane made it seem. She did have some good points. I did just keep all my money
in my current account and didn’t even have a credit card. (I saw my mum cause
my dad to literally age overnight when the credit card bills came in. She was
eventually cut off, and they were cut up.) So needless to say, that whole adulting
thing I was talking about earlier, my parents didn’t exactly prepare me in the
financial department. It’s not their fault; they were just s**t at money. My
response was to just hoard all my money, like a dragon, in one place. When I
let that slip to Jane, she lost her mind, and rightfully so. So the next day, I
got a very cheeky text from her that simply said “It’s time to adult-up!” just
before a confirmation text came through for a meeting at the bank with a
Benjamin Smith. How the hell she managed it she has still not told me, but she
did. I never quite understood Ben’s role
at the bank, but he was very good at it because he was crazy good with numbers
and was also great with people. I think part of it was that when you met him,
you weren’t intimidated by him. He was average. Aggressively so. Average
height, average build, average looks. Dark hair, dark eyes, generally fit and
healthy, but not toned. He wore glasses and drove your average, as Top Gear
would say, ‘Reasonably Priced Car’. Most people didn’t see past that average; they
didn’t want to. The result was that he had a wide group of acquaintances, but
not many people he would call friends. There were a few select people, and they
were fiercely loyal to him. Needless to say, when I walked
into that meeting, I had the same impression as most: he was an average guy. He
stood an indicated that I should take a seat and we got down to it. I could
tell that he was with Jane in his opinion on my financial management, or rather
the lack thereof. By the end of the meeting, I not only had a savings account,
and a credit card, but also an upgraded current account that is designed for
adults, not the basic account I had opened in my teens when I got my first
part-time job. He had also called my mortgage holder, and renegotiated, while
on the phone with me, a better interest rate. The man singlehandedly organised
my financial life in neat little folders, with labels. Literally. He handed me
a folder and walked me through a 6 month plan to add to my savings while still
paying my student loans and mortgage. When I left, he shook my hand and that
was it. There were no fireworks, no irresistible pull, no invisible tether that
became increasingly taut the further I was from him. None of that exaggerated BS
that you read about in romance novels. Instead, I just found myself thinking
about him and how he just seemed like a good guy. © 2023 New YorkshireFeatured Review
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3 Reviews Added on March 19, 2023 Last Updated on March 19, 2023 AuthorNew YorkshireUnited KingdomAboutI am a dual USA/UK citizen from New York State, living in Yorkshire (Hence, New Yorkshire). English teacher by trade. I often write short stories, but have rarely shared them with others. Signing.. more..Writing
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