Signs you are starting to move from the "Young Woman" stage of your life to full-blown "Woman":
1) You no longer enjoy going clubbing (if you ever did to begin with)
A few summers ago, my weeks were not complete without Thursday nights. My friends and I dressed up, went downtown, and danced like the world was ending. Or in my case, danced like you would expect an awkward, clumsy white girl to dance. We often stayed out until the wee hours of the morning, and talked about our various adventures for months. It was so much fun!!..until it wasn't. It's like that one day when I was 9 and I tried to play with my Barbies. As I started pulling them out of the storage tub, I suddenly realized they weren't fun anymore, and never would be again. Even at that age, I felt a mild pang of sadness about losing that part of myself, and knowing that it would never come back.
Now, I can get dressed and go through the motions of going out, but I don't enjoy it. If I go out, I don't want to be bumped by the drunk girl who is sloshing her Cosmo everywhere, or have to juke through the crowd to avoid that creepy guy who is brushing girl's bums as they walk by. I don't want to wear a dress and heels if it's 45ยบ outside. Or be surrounded by packs of girls screaming greetings at other screaming girls because they haven't seen each other in, like, four hours. Although I will admit that I'm pretty sure I've done thisa few times once.
1) You no longer enjoy going clubbing (if you ever did to begin with)
A few summers ago, my weeks were not complete without Thursday nights. My friends and I dressed up, went downtown, and danced like the world was ending. Or in my case, danced like you would expect an awkward, clumsy white girl to dance. We often stayed out until the wee hours of the morning, and talked about our various adventures for months. It was so much fun!!..until it wasn't. It's like that one day when I was 9 and I tried to play with my Barbies. As I started pulling them out of the storage tub, I suddenly realized they weren't fun anymore, and never would be again. Even at that age, I felt a mild pang of sadness about losing that part of myself, and knowing that it would never come back.
Now, I can get dressed and go through the motions of going out, but I don't enjoy it. If I go out, I don't want to be bumped by the drunk girl who is sloshing her Cosmo everywhere, or have to juke through the crowd to avoid that creepy guy who is brushing girl's bums as they walk by. I don't want to wear a dress and heels if it's 45ยบ outside. Or be surrounded by packs of girls screaming greetings at other screaming girls because they haven't seen each other in, like, four hours. Although I will admit that I'm pretty sure I've done this
I want to go somewhere where music is background noise, and not so bone-shakingly loud that I feel like I should take cover under a desk a la elementary school earthquake drill. I want to eat and chat with my friends, and then go home at a decent hour, put on sweatpants, and watch "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia" with The Hubs. Like with Barbie, I've reached the age and point of my life where going to clubs is just not fun anymore. This time, I'm okay with that.
Correction: Me. I say that.
2) Babies.
Every few days, Facebook announces that someone else I know is pregnant. Family members, friends, and coworkers have started asking when I plan on having kids. My doctor gave me the prenatal spiel at my last appointment. Despite the overwhelming interest in my reproductive habits, the idea of having a child terrifies me. On the one hand, I'm quite vain. My hips are already a black hole that sucks in every bit of junk food I eat. I worry that If I incubate a tiny human, they will go supernova. (I don't know if this is an accurate metaphor, but I have never claimed to be an astronomy expert. I actually got a B in Astronomy, so there you go). Secondly, if I have a child, I will have to be careful not to screw it up and end up with a bully, a serial killer or this:
Oh, the horror!
Yet sometimes, I find that I am actually excited about the process of baking a bun, usually after I see things such as these:
because OMG HE COULD LOOK JUST LIKE THE HUBS, HOW CUTE!!!!
This feeling usually passes when I remember how we are broke ALL. THE. TIME. If that isn't effective, I search Youtube for "Temper Tantrum." Works every time.
3) What can you eat? Oh, nothing.
I'm not sure how I weighed 90 lbs in high school, considering my normal lunch was Ho-hos and Mountain Dew. I'm sadly not joking. Michelle Obama wasn't around to lead the charge against childhood obesity, and it wasn't that high on the Bush agenda, what with the Axis of Evil flapping about causing trouble. But I digress. If I ate that for lunch every day now, I would weigh approximately 234725 lbs and have a complexion reminiscent of a pizza. Or perhaps the moon.
4) Who wears short shorts? Not this girl.
This year, I put on my tiny denim shorts, looked in the mirror, said, "It is time!" and promptly threw them in the trash (well, not the trash. That was for dramatic effect. I am actually going to sell them at one of those clothing resale shops, because, as I mentioned above, I'm poor). They haven't gotten any smaller, and I haven't gotten any bigger, but I no longer feel comfortable wearing them. Even The Hubs said, "they make you look young," and considering I am about to start a PhD program, "young" is not exactly the image I'm going for. I remember being a teenager and thinking about how sad I would be when I was too old to wear trendy clothes. Now I remember this and laugh because this is what teenage girls are currently wearing:
What? That's not a teenage girl? Oh my goodness, that's Justin Beiber. Wow. Well, it was an honest mistake.
Great post Monica! Though, the Barbie comparison nearly made me cry. Also, amen to the eating bit. I feel and look terrible when I eat fast food now. Oh the joys of becoming!
ReplyDeleteSee you fairly soon!
Louise