Nothing says character development quite like spending an entire year indoors to self-reflect, so it’s no surprise that we’ve watched people enter lockdown as one person and leave as someone wildly different. Solitary confinement has allowed people to think about their identity, their past, their mullets, and discover new things to fill their lifeless days before normality starts up again.
A huge magnifying glass has been put on trends in popular culture, making us more aware of how they travel through the TikTok stratosphere and who is engaging in them (everyone you know and love). After all, it’s not like anyone has had anything else to think about – viral disease, social inequality and Boris Johnson’s embarrassing haircut aside.
Which leads me to this ultra-specific collection of lockdown personalities. They’re your friends. They’re your family. They’re the people from home you went to school with but still follow on Instagram. And although you don’t want to admit it, they’re you. You’re in for a rude awakening.
Which post-lockdown personality are you? Find out here:
Wedged between anti-Meghan tabloid articles shared by distant relatives, there are the Facebook posts from people who miss pints and really want you to know about it. You thought the liberation of May 17th would mute the reminiscer’s nostalgia, but instead you’re now being bombarded with snaps of cocktails and Dark Fruits captioned “really needed this”.
Always a little bit behind on social media trends (hence the active use of Facebook), these people are still invested in the life of Joe Exotic, have maintained a steadfast passion for Harry Potter since conception, and are always trying to replicate the blissful ignorance of early 2020.
If you’re in denial, a Harry Styles stan, or have ever mentioned Peep Show in your Tinder bio, this is probably you.
The born-again bookworm
The born-again bookworm won’t shut up about how they were a gifted kid in school. While they seem obnoxious, they’re self-aware, and at least know they peaked in Year 4 when they aced every spelling test.
They used to churn through each Jacqueline Wilson release, but haven’t read a book since. That is, until Lockdown Number One. Since then, they’ve lost all self-awareness and desperately want you to know how many books they’ve been reading.
You’ve lost count of the amount of times they’ve recommended you read Conversations with Friends because they think Sally Rooney’s writing “really captures the essence of modern love”. As they cling onto their glory days — and their Daunt Books tote bag — the least we can do is indulge the born-again bookworm by adding them on Goodreads.
When middle-aged men experience a midlife crisis, they buy a sports car or cheat on their wives. When men in their late teens/early 20s experience a quarantine-induced identity crisis, they get really into drum and bass.
Their Instagram stories are suddenly full of pictures of their brand new decks and links to “dutty beats” they found on Soundcloud that all sound exactly the same. They channel their yearning for a rave and the stresses of white suburbia into their newfound creative pursuits, hoping the LED lights they bought for their room will spark inspiration.
The DJ is truly in their element, and you can’t help but wonder: is this a cry for help, or are they actually coping better than the rest of us?
The sourdough starter
By far the most punchable of lockdown personalities, the sourdough starter’s sole purpose is to make you feel inadequate. They’re the personification of rise and grind, waking up at 6.00am, whisking a matcha latte, going for a run, and living a full life before you’ve even come to consciousness.
You’re not sure what happened to them. Just a year ago they spent their weekends getting plastered at Spoons, but now they’re pretending they like red wine and instead spend their weekends making charcuterie boards and meals that contain nutritional yeast.
If this is you, you either swear by the Joe Rogan Experience and are into cryptocurrency, or you recently got really into poetry and shop at Whole Foods. Either way, you have too much disposable income.
The one you don’t think has even realised there’s a pandemic
This person is like if the sourdough starter didn’t believe in modern medicine. At first, you’re certain they actually want there to be a pandemic; they won’t stop talking about how they’ve learned to appreciate the little things in life, like Chloe Ting ab workouts, Zoom pub quizzes and how to make a side hustle from sub-par baking skills.
However you soon realise their nonchalance comes from the fact they’ve been living life exactly like before, somehow managing to have squeezed in a few raves, an all-inclusive holiday, and about three weddings over the last year.
Between perfecting a skincare routine and deciding which lockdown rules suit them, it’s a miracle they made it to the weekly 7.00pm clap for the NHS with such punctuality. You can now find them at a Turtle Bay bottomless brunch deciding whether or not they’re going to get vaccinated because they’re worried about being microchipped.
The Depop queen
Nothing says economic depression quite like the girlboss-ification of gentrification. This person has become the She-EO of harassing Susan from Oxfam for the latest stock of blouses that scream both “Y2K fashion!” and “my Year 8 music teacher wore this to the Christmas Choir!”, and then reselling them for extortionate prices online.
In a misguided crusade for sustainable second-hand fashion, the Depop queen has instead become a connoisseur of chunky resin rings and cropped slogan tees that say things like “Baby’s First Trip to M&M World”, that are only cropped because they were designed for actual toddlers.
But don’t fear – they ship out their clothes in biodegradable packaging.
We can only hope lockdowns come in threes. If not, who knows what these people are capable of, and what havoc they may wreak next. I predict further national shortages of Little Moons and leather blazers, as well as further hair crises once people decide curtain bangs, two front streaks, or tiny plaits simply aren’t enough to numb the boredom of lockdown solitude.
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