07 January 2008
21 method acting
i am twelve. yes, i have a slightly better understanding of sex, am more well read, have infinitely better hair, a less mercurial temperament, vastly improved writing skills, and a fashion sense. i now know tapered leg jeans are not the way. but, basically, i am still twelve.
much to the consternation of my parents. every trip home features a "big girl shopping trip," during which they fork over money for practical things like belted jumpers and pantsuits and blazers. things, featuring a maximum of one color, that would be more at home in the closet of margaret thatcher. beige things that i will never in a million years wear. because i am technicolor. and i am not a big girl.
at least i don't feel like one. but i get the sense i'm probably supposed to be by now. or at least getting closer. because it's coming whether my 12-year-old self likes it or not- this whole adulthood thing.
some many many moons ago, when we were all a whole year younger, the dread pirate mused upon the fact that "we're all adults here." it was scarifying then and it's only moderately less scarifying now. so my question is this: are we really? is this adulthood?
i work and pay bills and have loans and do my own laundry and can stay out till morning drinking belgian beer if i so choose. tonight, i chose to stay in and read about consuelo vanderbilt and listen to "gimme more" on repeat for hours and hours. how terribly responsible and independent.
but somehow that's not what i thought adulthood would be. bills and beer. where is the glamor? what of the velvet? (this is why impressionable young girls should never read dumas.)
then there i was, innocently doing my laundry when N blew in. she moved in a cloud of chanel no. 5, her lips a slash of matte red, her hair curled and teased and shellacked within an inch of its life, stilettos cracking like gunshots against the unfinished concrete floor as the door slammed behind her. she looked like a pissed-off model from the september 1952 vogue. she looked, in a word, adult.
there, in her wake, i stood- jeans rolled up mid-calf in an homage to my mississippi roots and a black bra highly visible under a shirt proclaiming the sexiness of a.c. slater- giggling. because i am twelve. and that's probably for the best.