Monday, October 20th, 2008
A few things. The woman who works at the deli calls me “young lady.” She has a kind of abrasive personality to begin with, so the condescension really isn’t appreciated. I’m 26 years old. I don’t think anyone is allowed to call me “young lady” any more. She doesn’t call everyone “young lady.” Right after she served me my black bean salsa she said to the woman next to me, who was maybe in her 40s, “Can I help you, ma’am?” If she really feels it’s necessary to distinguish between ages, couldn’t she at least call me “miss,” the way that other people talk down to me? Or at least would it be okay if I started addressing her as “oldie”?
Next, I am not a young lady. And I’m not just saying that defensively. It’s scientific. I learned in my psych class that the prefrontal cortex reaches maturity at age 25. That’s the part of your brain that deals in planning and decision-making. Honestly, I think I felt it click, when the final piece moved into place. I love growing older.
I love, and simultaneously hate, that I am not capable of text messaging the way that young people are. It’s the first time that I’ve felt physically resistant to technology, although I’m trying. As I was walking to my class this evening I saw a kid hunched over his phone in the main entrance. I eventually figured out that he was texting, but at first glance it looked like he was attempting to cut through a piece of leather with a jack knife – his movements were sharp and violent – he was attacking his cell phone. I can’t walk a straight line when I text. People who text while driving scare me senseless. I am too wordy for text messaging. I want to go on and on forever, the way that my fingers move here, the speed that thoughts tumble out of my head. I have too much to tell you to fit into a text message. Text messaging is censorship. That ship don’t sail.
Tuesday, July 22nd, 2008
Last night I was told, for the one millionth time, that I look like I am in high school. I know it was the one millionth time because I have been keeping track in my head. When the man said those words, “Do you go to East High?” the sky opened up and a flurry of balloons and streamers fell with celebration to the earth. A marching band gathered round us in a semicircle and played something by John Phillip Sousa, heavy on the cymbals. “You are the one millionth!” a loudspeaker declared. “There were nine hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine before you!” I followed the pomp by saying with a well-rehearsed smile, “Actually, I’ve been out of college for three years now.”
I may be the only woman in her mid-twenties who delights when she looks in the mirror and finds a wrinkle here or there. I’d like, someday, to look my age. Yes, yes, I know. “You’ll be happy when you’re 35 and look like you’re 21.” I know. I know you think that. It’s okay to stop telling me, though.
Tomorrow marks my one year anniversary at my current job. I am a lover of landmarks in time and space, and this one is no exception. There have been quite a few changes since I started last year, both professionally and personally, and maybe this is a sickness but I really enjoy reflecting obsessively on those changes. I love growth. And I love this job. One year later I can still say that. Anyway, there are some other major landmarks coming up, including the anniversary of my birth, including the one-year anniversary of the disbanding of The Art Table, which we intend to commemorate by playing a reunion show, which you probably shouldn’t miss, if you can help it.
Who invented popcorn, I wonder, or was that one of those “happy accidents”? In this day and age, one cannot freely wonder those types of things anymore without someone sighing “why don’t you Google it?” That’s what you were thinking, weren’t you? “Why don’t you Google it?” Let’s not do it, okay? Let’s not look it up, let’s just wonder. Let’s let that be enough.