If someone asked me, in all seriousness, what my ideal evening would consist of, I would close my eyes and think of the following (in this order): soaking myself in bath oils until wrinkled, lying horizontal underneath a big blanket wearing thick socks, propping myself with an oversize pillow, and settling into a good solid book (hardback, not on Kindle). I know what you’re thinking: This reminds you of the sort of evening someone’s grandma would have.
If you were a fly on the wall in my flat on any given evening, you’d probably see me reading the papers with a pair of glasses perched on the end of my nose. I’m 26, and yet my most treasured possession is my luxury knit hot water bottle. I often feel like the right answer should be that my ideal evening is something that involves venturing outside my apartment, or going to a concert or a party. I’m racked with fear that I will look back and regret not being “wild” in my twenties.
To console myself that I wasn’t the only one (apart from some of my introverted friends) who always preferred staying in if given the option, I went to Google for some reassurance. First, I found a piece in the Telegraph called “knitters are the new gangsters,” about the rise of twentysomethings knitting themselves woolly garments. Then I found a satirical article published in The New Yorker about the“growing phenomenon of calling oneself a grandma,” which was mostly “among twentysomethings who refuse to leave their apartments over the weekend.” I used to roll my eyes at people who would claim to be “such a grandma!” while staying at home cooking and “working on a new project” — but now I’ve turned into that cliché. I get hives at just the idea of going to a nightclub, let alone forcing my feet into pointy heels after years of only wearing black leather boots. But it’s OK — maybe Generation Granny really is on the rise.