Thursday, October 02, 2008

Imagine This Is a Note In Your Locker

Holy crapola, it’s finally fall. Am I really, truly sitting inside writing about my stupid feelings instead of walking around and being cold and wearing sweaters and, I don’t know, doing something that doesn't rely on MS Word and trying to decide if the strange thing in the bottom of my coffee cup is a piece of lint or a dead spider? Yes, I am.

Verdict: lint.

I always fall prey to constantly thinking something very significant is on the verge of happening at this time of year. Currently, I’m aiding and abetting my own delusion with this playlist I made for my friend Kai entitled “Songs to Make Your Teenage Heart Hurt,” because we’ve known each other since before our hearts were even teenaged. It’s all pining and awkward lead singers and plaintive guitars and it’s making me so sure that I’m seconds from starring in my own John Hughes epic I can hardly sit still in my seat. I just wonder if October is going to turn me into a hormonal thirteen-year-old for the rest of my life, and at which point it will be inappropriate to acknowledge this. Forty? Thirty? Right now, because I am theoretically a grown-ass lady with health insurance and due concern about my credit score?

[Interrupting your regularly scheduled dumb minutia for the following conversation I just had with my boss, who is incidentally the president of a reputable international corporation. How I have a job is as big a mystery to me as anyone:

Boss: Who called before?
His assistant: Oh, just a solicitor.
Boss: Solicitor? There will be NO solicitation in this office! No streetwalkers!
Me: Then I’m gonna need a raise.
Boss: Get a part time job.
Me: I thought that’s what that was…]

Except, see, okay, when I was thirteen, I didn’t do anything exciting. I volunteered as a children’s librarian, I sang in a church choir, I was embarrassingly good at school, I returned my rented videos on time, and my one brush with alcohol involved chickening out of a parent-approved sip of champagne at my uncle’s wedding. Even my crushes were logical and non-threatening; who loves the same high-achieving, 4.0 GPA-earning, clean-cut dork of boy for four uninterrupted teenage years based on approximately two conversations? Yes, I walked around looking like a riot-rrrrretard and listened to loud music and, of course, dabbled in witchcraft, but I was never the kind of kid to take the extra step and, like, dye my hair pink. Looking like an asshole is not a great substitute for your life actually being unpredictable and diary-worthy.

I’m a firm believer in teenage rebellion, but also in that story of Archimedes and the golden crown and discovering in the bathtub that his volume in water was displaced when he got in. If this fluttery, thirteen-year-old feeling is the water in this equation, then maybe some of us just have an overfilled tub. Once you get in, it has to go somewhere, and bam, your twenties are sopping with adolescence, and there you are staying out too late with your close personal friend Mr. J. Daniels. And you develop quick and smiting crushes on boys, plural boys. And occasionally you’re that gnarly chick making out in public that thirteen-year-old you would’ve whispered about.

Is this is the equivalent of writing about myself on a bathroom stall?


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