Irregular Verbs

I got sucked into Vice-land again on Friday, perusing the Dos/Don'ts from last summer/fall, the photographs of folks doing what I wasn't (Dos: night-milling around Willbur' and Lower Manhattan in "outfits"/Don'ts: looking bad). But this parenthetical description of what Don'ts do is not wholly accurate; sometimes (lotstimes), these boys get it way wrong. Sometimes, they put this Mami in "WHO CARES?" pants on the bad list with some glib, sizist bullshit non-funny epitaph, when really she's a subversive genius, making the sweatpant-with-text-on-ass avant and existential--WHO KNEW? And I'm not going to get into why the aging heputzes at Vice make bad choices, because duh and I've tried to before (with ishy success). I just want to talk about pants-Mami and our 24th birthdays and how much I don't want to talk about heputzes (also see: dandelion dipshits and boxcar children) anymore. But of course I will (talk about them, I mean). I plan to in my next post even. I'll just try not to pose questions in a ho-hum-I-feel-old sort of way--because oh-my, we, at 24, certainly are not--or in a I-hate-my-ex-boys sort of way--because, word, I do (with good reason), but I'm tired of talking about those old shoes (and so are you).

I felt too old to attend the "illegal party" that Petrova did on Saturday (I've been on the outs with uppers since '06). And I've been a tricky post-birthday case, feeling sorry for myself about not being a kid anymore and getting crushes on boys who look like boys I got crushes on in 8th grade and acting indignant when they hook up with 18-year-olds instead of me. But it's getting warm and I'm feeling cheerier and I just want to celebrate how much easier my life is now that I don't really CARE about what others think as much as I used to, as much as aforementioned 18-year-olds must still. At A&P, we are young enough to expertly navigate contemporary pop culture, but old enough to have something to say about what came before. And we don't have kids yet. So, there's that. And if we wanted to do something, like write a book about the early aughts or open a bar, we could, and maybe be taken seriously. And I can't help but think (forgive Bradshawism) about the year when Oprah was always gloating about turning fifty and being wise and knowing thyself. Maybe what I miss most about my yout' (15-23) is the occasional, theatrical rush of mis-identity (and eating whatever I wanted). But if I'm being honest, that mis-identity rush is more like losing your lunch and feeling like a fraud than having a nice time. Knowing what I like to wear and drink and think is a damn blessing.

Bless.