I am at an unusual crossroads in my life. Part of me firmly believes that when you buy clothes online it’s like you aren’t actually spending any money—but another part of me frequently watches YouTube videos about how to make the perfect lamb chops. I spent a solid three hours Sunday night making Dubsmash videos to send to my little brother—but I also vacuumed my room and reorganized my entire closet.
For a while I struggled to identify this sort of "limbo" developmental stage. It’s a fun mix of uncontrollable neurosis and undeniable incompetence that adds up to what is surely some form of multiple personality disorder. Yet, I have finally found a name for this stage of my life—“The Monchel.”
Let me explain. For those you have seen "Friends," you are familiar with Rachel Green and Monica Geller. For those who have not, please close out this article now and refrain from ever communicating with anyone in Generation X/Y. Just kidding…kind of.
Monica was the OCD, detail-oriented perfectionist and Rachel was the naive, impulsive drama queen. Before I entered college, I was a self-identified Rachel. I knew, if given the chance, Rachel and I would be gal pals. It wasn’t until sophomore year that I realized I was also definitely a Monica.
Ever since then it was been a dramatic journey, one even Freud would avoid, to try and figure out what to answer on 83 percent of all Buzzfeed quizzes when it asks me to pick one: Rachel or Monica.
When I know that my friends or my family will be coming by my apartment, Monica takes over and I clean the place like a 16 year-old who threw a party at her house while her parents were out of town.
But then Rachel takes charge and I spend $60 to download "The Sims" onto my computer so I can make an animated version of myself who's married to Liam Hemsworth (or Chris Pratt, depending on my mood).
Later, Monica comes back with a vengeance. When I see a girl in class stuffing a graded paper into her backpack, I physically cringe. I want to give her a lesson on the beauty of color-coordinated folders and the vast benefits of an organizational binder.
My inner-Rachel, however, has no idea or any remote desire to enter the "real world." While my fellow classmates get all dressed up for big interviews or career fairs, I'm seeing how many Swedish Fish I can stuff into my mouth while researching internships for the Food Network.
Some teachers get some sick pleasure in assigning group projects. And somehow I am always the one stuck with the guy who still wears a beanie and the girl who also takes her shoes off and puts her bare feet on the table. When either of these group members try and assert any sort of dominance within the group, the claws and the Monica inside me come out.
When my birthday or really any holiday where it is mildly acceptable to be given presents rolls around, it's all Rachel. The present must be wrapped, not lazily put into a bag with tissue paper. Everyone knows that unwrapping a present is the best part. I've started to make a really big deal out of National Bubba Day and National Bouillabaisse Day in hopes of getting a gift on such illustrious holidays.
"The Monchel"—or potentially the "The Rachica" (I definitely prefer the former)—can now be officially included in the next addition of Webster's Dictionary to account for that time in your life when you just can't decide which way to go. But, hey, is there really any losing in this situation?
