Winding suburbs hold the remnants of thirteen. When I was invited to the prom as a freshman and it was such a big deal and I had Katie’s mother blow out my hair and wore a short silver holographic dress that could not have clashed more with the enormous red corsage my first official kiss bought for me.
When I had a skateboard but was too embarrassed to learn how to ride it when we all hung out in parking lots waxing on NOFX, sporting crowned Jnco. When we had no idea what it was that we wanted, only what we didn’t, and that core group of girls central to every activity, every tailgating party, every new bathing suit, orbited around each other, inappropriately hugging and exclaiming their love for one another.
Leases, babies, new circles and PHDs later. Yet the vestige of all the inside jokes, back when a Wednesday night was just the beginning of the weekend, comes flooding back. Different friends, upgraded from Newport-sneaking to rimless wine glasses, and the effect is exactly as it was.
It’s quiet on the patio save for our irrepressible giggles, these gales of unfortunate and ladylike squeals coming from girls who, were we to exist anywhere else, would have our act together by now. The problems we face are small to the world, enormous to us in this state, and prompt endless analysis at our sleepover, we wear short shorts and dresses to bed, just as boys would hope we would, and the only thing missing as Friday night fades is our parents yelling at us to keep it down and our own quick eye rolls as they recede back into their rooms.
We have crushes, again, and we want to talk talk talk talk about them, flipping open the glow of our cell phones and thrusting the screens into each other’s faces with see, see when he said this, what did it mean, does it mean he likes me, do you think he might?
We’re looking at each other’s outfits, wilted at the close of business, agreeing that as girls we are allowed just a few minutes of being utterly vacuous as this, because so much of the rest of the time—we insist—we’re enjoying art and other, worthwhile academic and environmental endeavors, we can be stupid together like this because it’s not exactly who we are, or if it is, just a small slice, one that few know we’re capable of, one that independently exists and barely rears its head in opposition to what’s important and what’s okay in the scheme of how one should be.
We know. In the real world there is no laughing about making T-shirts that say Merkin Manor in the Meerkat Manor font, for example. But this weekend…every regression is allowed.
When I had a skateboard but was too embarrassed to learn how to ride it when we all hung out in parking lots waxing on NOFX, sporting crowned Jnco. When we had no idea what it was that we wanted, only what we didn’t, and that core group of girls central to every activity, every tailgating party, every new bathing suit, orbited around each other, inappropriately hugging and exclaiming their love for one another.
Leases, babies, new circles and PHDs later. Yet the vestige of all the inside jokes, back when a Wednesday night was just the beginning of the weekend, comes flooding back. Different friends, upgraded from Newport-sneaking to rimless wine glasses, and the effect is exactly as it was.
It’s quiet on the patio save for our irrepressible giggles, these gales of unfortunate and ladylike squeals coming from girls who, were we to exist anywhere else, would have our act together by now. The problems we face are small to the world, enormous to us in this state, and prompt endless analysis at our sleepover, we wear short shorts and dresses to bed, just as boys would hope we would, and the only thing missing as Friday night fades is our parents yelling at us to keep it down and our own quick eye rolls as they recede back into their rooms.
We have crushes, again, and we want to talk talk talk talk about them, flipping open the glow of our cell phones and thrusting the screens into each other’s faces with see, see when he said this, what did it mean, does it mean he likes me, do you think he might?
We’re looking at each other’s outfits, wilted at the close of business, agreeing that as girls we are allowed just a few minutes of being utterly vacuous as this, because so much of the rest of the time—we insist—we’re enjoying art and other, worthwhile academic and environmental endeavors, we can be stupid together like this because it’s not exactly who we are, or if it is, just a small slice, one that few know we’re capable of, one that independently exists and barely rears its head in opposition to what’s important and what’s okay in the scheme of how one should be.
We know. In the real world there is no laughing about making T-shirts that say Merkin Manor in the Meerkat Manor font, for example. But this weekend…every regression is allowed.
4 comments:
You have a crush on me.
Admit it.
*sobbing*
Are you coming to the show tomorrow night? I promise extra regression if you do.
Merkin Manor!!
Dear god that is hilarious.
I love doing that... acting in ways that are so immature, convincing ourselves that we have earned that right by our general maturity, and giggling like crazy women. We do deserve that right.
Post a Comment