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A day of spending in the life of a post-lockdown millennial. 💸

I buy flights before breakfast. In four weeks I’ll be ‘WFH’ in Mallorca; I’ve already turned my video off for work calls and begun moaning about WiFi and mesh systems so my boss can’t see that sweet Iberian light or my facial sunburn when the time comes. I screenshot the EasyJet email receipt and text it to my friend.

“Hot girl summer!” She responds.

“🥵🤪” I write back.

I get out of bed and do a dance workout on Instagram live, followed by a ten minute Yoga With Adriene. Work is flexi now, obvs, so today I’m going into the office. I go big on eye makeup, put on my best mask, and hit the Northern line. Still relishing the novelty of the newly reopened veggie Pret, I load up on a coconut flat white and cheese and tomato croissant, making a mental note to support the small local coffee shop tomorrow.

When I get to my desk it’s hard to concentrate because I’m waiting for festival tickets to go live. I buy tiny pink-tinted sunglasses online in anticipation, and a fanny pack. They’re both from Urban Outfitters, but I reason that only teenagers shop there now so no one my age will know.

At lunch, I get a couscous salad box from the market and take a pic of my work friend lunging in front of our company logo. I put it on my Insta story with an upside-down smiley and deliberate between GIFs of Eminen (guess who’s back… duh) and Michael J. Fox - I decide to go for both and relish in my inferential cultural genius all afternoon. At 3 pm I buy a rocky road and a diet coke, and then a plant for my room, because why the fuck not.

I have two pints and thick-cut chips at the pub with my colleagues after work, before going on to a dinner reservation I had to book three months ago. We eat three courses and talk about how nice it is to have food we haven’t cooked and how socially anxious we are about being in groups larger than 10. On my way home I glare at the teenage boys in my carriage who aren’t wearing masks. I passive-aggressively open the window and face towards it so my hair streams behind me. I hope they feel guilty.

When I get home I double cleanse and climb into bed, swiping through Hinge for an hour with the phone 3 inches from my face. My final stop is Instagram, where I subscribe to a monthly delivery of CBD-infused tampons off the back of a targeted ad. I worry about why I don’t think up business ideas like subscription service tampons, and whether I’ll ever have a job I actually love. I DM the tampons to all my friends. Once I’m tired enough to sleep, I switch on my Calm app. Harry Styles reads me a story as I drift off.

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