Yes, Mr Crackhead,
I know that you're rattling.
I know that you're desperate,
But there are other things happening.
This cubicle is occupied,
And I'm trying to shit.
And as soon as I'm finished,
I'll be out in a bit.
I'd be much quicker you see,
But I have to implore:
That you stop knocking and shouting,
Through this clearly locked door.
Ah, “adulting.” The term itself conjures an image of crisp shirts, packed lunches, and unwavering responsibility. But for many, the reality feels more like a bumbling performance in a play we never auditioned for. The bills pile up, the washing machine throws tantrums, and the existential dread of “am I doing this right?” hangs heavy in the air.
This pervasive feeling of inadequacy, this constant questioning of whether we’re truly “adulting” enough, has a close resemblance to something psychologists call “imposter syndrome.” Defined as a collection of beliefs that one’s success is due to luck or external factors rather than their own competence, imposter syndrome can manifest in various areas of life, including the seemingly straightforward realm of adulthood.
So, are we all simply a bunch of adulting imposters?
The answer, like most things in life, isn’t so black and white. While the challenges and uncertainties of adulting can certainly trigger feelings of inadequacy, it’s important to remember that imposter syndrome is a specific psychological phenomenon.
Here’s where the distinction lies. Adulting inherently involves navigating unfamiliar territory. We learn to manage finances, juggle work and personal commitments, and make independent decisions – all while still figuring out who we are and what we want in life. It’s natural to feel overwhelmed, unsure, and occasionally like we’re just winging it.
However, when these feelings become pervasive and paralyzing, leading to self-sabotage and a constant fear of being exposed as a fraud, it might be a sign of imposter syndrome.
So, how do we differentiate between normal “adulting jitters” and true imposter syndrome? Here are some key indicators:
Attribution of success
Do you attribute your achievements to external factors like luck or being in the right place at the right time, rather than your own skills and hard work?
Fear of exposure
Do you live in constant fear of being “found out” as someone who doesn’t actually deserve their successes or responsibilities?
Self-deprecating comparisons
Do you constantly compare yourself to others, feeling inferior and inadequate despite evidence to the contrary?
If these points resonate deeply, it’s crucial to seek assistance. Talking to a therapist or counselor can help you challenge these negative thought patterns and develop coping mechanisms to navigate the uncertainties of adulting with greater confidence.
Ultimately, “adulting” is not a performance with a set script or a clear-cut ending. It’s a continuous learning process, messy and unpredictable at times. Embracing the journey, acknowledging our vulnerabilities, and celebrating our successes, big and small, are key to navigating this often-daunting phase with a sense of self-compassion and, dare we say, adulting-worthy resilience.
I keep reading/hearing about this problem.
I’m one of the few taxi drivers that didn’t take up the offer of free HGV Class I training offered a couple of years ago (had to have appendix out, long story).
So I stayed.
But it’s true, the calibre of work has gone right down the pan these last few years. I’m lucky enough not to get abusive passengers (touch wood) but runners and pukers and generally not feeling safe with who I pick up is definitely making me reconsider working nights these days.
In my opinion, people these days are just angry and entitled. Lockdown has been years of being told what we can’t do, and where we can’t go, and we’ve had enough.
So I get it. I get why.
But it’s a vicious circle. If people are assholes, then taxi drivers don’t want to work at night. And if there aren’t enough taxis, people get angry and competitive.
Things won’t be like this forever, I’m sure.
Slows down to let two women get by in Joiners Alley.
They try to get me to pick them up but I am private hire and I’m on my way to pick somebody else up.
Some debate ensues where I continually refuse to pick them up.
They end by shouting “Well if we get raped, it’s on you!!”
Quick as a flash I reply “Don’t flatter yourself, love!”
What horrible bastards people have become, myself included, probably 🤷
I had a young man in my taxi over the weekend. I would usually refer to a young man as a gentleman, but he was not.
I immediately got the impression that he was quite unpleasant and rude, from the way he slouched into the taxi, simply barking out the part of town he wanted to go to without a please or thank you, and how he immediately started eating his kebab in the backseat without even asking my permission. Simply put, he was a horrible dickhead.
When we got to where he lived, he paid the exact fare, not a penny more, not a penny less, and slouched off to his house. Incidentally I never expect a tip, so I expect this was just par for the course for the individual in the back of my car.
I was quite relieved that the journey was over as you can imagine.
As he walked away I casually looked over my left shoulder and spotted the mayonnaise drizzled blue takeaway fork on the back seat. Once again, it was no surprise to see it there.
As this was my last job and I was heading to ASDA to do a bit of shopping before I went home, I just drove off with the blue fork on the backseat. I would dispose of it when I got there.
When I got to ASDA I opened the back door to remove the blue fork, and was fairly unsurprised to see the abandoned kebab on the floor beneath where my passenger had been sitting.
Muttering something under my breath expressing my opinion of my passenger, I closed the kebab box and removed it from the floor of my taxi.
It was at this point that I noticed a long, flat, oil stained, brown paper bag beneath where the kebab box had formerly been.
I observed that the paper bag was quite warm so I slid the contents out to discover a couple of rather gorgeous looking onion bhajis nestled in a polystyrene tray.
Rejoicing in the positive turnaround of events, I climbed back into the front seat of the taxi with the onion bhajis, with the intention of enjoying the fuck out of them.
The first onion bhaji went down a storm. Crispy and warm with just the right amount of internal moistness with a feathery texture, I was feeling quite pleased with myself.
Raising the second onion bhaji to my mouth I noticed that it looked a little different to the first one, with a slightly different colour nearer to light brown than gold, with a marginally different surface texture. Perhaps it was a different type of onion bhaji?
As I bit down I noticed how softer the second onion bhaji was. Around the same time, my tongue informed me that I had bitten into the surface of the sun, taste wise.
The second onion bhaji was fucking HOT. Like a vindaloo or a phal curry.
After drinking a litre and a half of pop to extinguish the inferno in my mouth I disposed of the second kebab rather than attempting to eat it.
I can only conclude that my passenger had similarly pissed off the people in the kebab shop, so they left him a little present, in the form of a “modified” onion bhaji. Modified with the hottest curry paste on Earth.
Before I disposed of the onion bhaji I broke it in half to discover that there was quite a lot of brown curry paste mixed in with the ingredients.
Unfortunately due to the level of alcohol he’d probably consumed he had forgotten about his onion bhajis so the karma that was headed his way ended up in my mouth.
But that first onion bhaji was fit.
I picked up two gentlemen from a rock pub in Morecambe. One of them was quite sober (Mr S) and chatty, the other it quickly became apparent, was utterly and completely wasted (Mr W).
I could tell Mr W was in quite a state because the only conversation his comparatively sober friend was getting from him were grunts, burps, and the odd random – “GARGGHH!”
Mr S got dropped off first, paid his contribution up to that point (£6) and left me in the scintillating company of Mr I.M. Wasted, Esquire as we continued our journey to Lancaster.
During the journey, Mr W achieved the following goals:
We finally arrived at our destination, a street of lovely old houses facing Lancaster Castle (which I have yet to visit.)
The fare had advanced another £13 so I woke up Mr W, and thus began the debacle of trying to get him to pay his fare.
He looked in both of his wallets (I could only see one wallet,) fished out his debit card and I passed over my card reader (as he did not have contactless payment.)
On the screen of my phone I could see that his PIN consisted of 7, 5, 3 and 9 digits, until he finally keyed in the correct 4 digit PIN, and his card was declined. I wasn’t frustrated at all, honestly.
The nearest ATM was the Spar on The Marsh, which is about a mile downhill from The Castle.
As you can see, the ATM is on the left. There are bollards, a bin, and left of the ATM is a drainpipe.
Mr W put his card in the machine, tripped on the bollard to the left of him, and managed to wedge himself next to the drainpipe. I imagine he looked a bit like this:
That’s right, my friends, once wedged in, he had a little nap. I reversed my car a little so I could watch the ATM give up waiting for his PIN, and swallow his card.
Finally he awoke, flipped out his willy and started messily pissing into the corner.
At this point I’m afraid I had run out of patience.
So I left him. I cut my losses and drove off. He was too busy pissing to notice. I imagined him attempting to drunkenly climb the various steep gradients during his walk home. Maybe fall asleep in a garden. Get pissed on by a dog.
Half an hour later the guilt started to kick in about leaving him stranded, and that Karma would pay me a visit at some point.
My next passenger was really lovely and gave me a £15 tip.
I live three floors above my lovely neighbour. I work nights. Everyone in the building knows I work nights. I like to have my bedroom window open when I sleep.
Every morning for the last three weeks, my neighbour has been doing carpentry in his garden, listening to various 90s pop, and rap, singing along in his Jimmy Savile-like voice.
I used to leave my toilet flushing until I got up, as my turds falling 60 feet inside the waste pipe would, I imagine, be quite noisy as they passed ground level at 3am. I used to wait. Now I flush.
The hammering and Jimmy Savile singing has stopped.
You could have flashed me out.
It would have only taken a couple of twitches of your fingertips
You could even have indicated as you were turning into my junction
So I would have known what you were doing
But you didn't, did you?
No, you just slowed down and turned into the junction without letting me know
Making me wait for no reason but your selfishness
But it gave me time to reflect
Upon how selfish drivers are these days
Well, hello folks. I expect you all thought you’d heard the last of me! Sordid details following:
I’ve been keeping to myself since the first lockdown.
Being isolated for 6 weeks in the first lockdown made me really miss human contact (my job is the only way I get any, and the brief company of strangers is better than nothing, but still infinitely better.)
I deleted every dating app, and managed to last for a few months.
Eventually Facebook Dating appeared and I joined that, with little success.
I joined TikTok in November and I’ve been trying to use that to connect with people though its completely pointless, but a lot of fun.
I managed to go viral with one video, but, embarrassingly, its me pretending to knock one out to the tune Everyday by Buddy Holly. Nothing inspirational or cute.
https://vm.tiktok.com/ZS7URW4Q/
I rejoined Tinder recently, and a chat I had this evening has reminded me why I gave up, and why I’m here now.
I unmatched her before I screenshotted the chat, so I’ll have to give you the gist here.
She asked me how I was coping with the COVID pandemic, and I answered honestly (its all terrible) and after a few messages I happened to say “Waking each day is a bonus, lucky I’m a glass half full kind of guy” which I must admit was me being a bit ironic/sarcastic (always a mistake in written form) but she chose to reply, “Well you don’t sound very optimistic” which I saw as “Red Flag #1 🚩”
Then, before things turned horrible she noted that my “Job” was Music Producer and Author, not Taxi Driver, as our earlier conversation had revealed.
I replied that whom we identify as is more relevant than how we make a living. She said she wouldn’t have swiped right had she known I was a taxi driver, as she was sick of being the breadwinner in past relationships “Red Flag #2 🚩”
So yeah, that was fun. Have you missed me? 🤣🤣🤣
The Dave Price Blog 