My recent lack of posts stems from the fact that I'm currently going through a vapid yet disruptive existential crisis. Less than a month shy of turning 20, I've found myself questioning my current lifestyle habits and wondering what effect my present behavior will have on my more-and-more-rapidly-encroaching post graduate life. I'll be the first to admit it: I go out too often and while I'm out I go too extreme. There's no denying it, and while my GPA is good, there's also no denying that it would be better if I acted more responsibly. At my large university, I've been able to make it feel much smaller by knowing a vast majority of the non-asian male population, due to them either being next on my Hit List or already on my I've-Hit-It List. I only go to the gym on days when I'm not hungover, which is approximately twice a week, and my diet consists of coffee with nonfat milk until 3 pm, and roughly one thousand calories worth of pizza after 3 am. While it looks like I've hired Lindsay Lohan's old life coach, the truth is I'm the happiest now that I've ever been in my entire life. The only thought causing me stress is that maybe it's time I should start thinking responsibly.
Every morning, I sit with my coffee and have a hungover meditation. I know I could fix all of these seemingly wrong things about my life easily, and I know exactly how I'd do it. Instead of starving myself all day so that I can fit into whichever piece of spandex nightwear I'm planning on wearing and then drunk munching on pizza before falling asleep with my shoes still on, I could eat dinner at a reasonable hour then retire to my room to stay on top of my homework before the weekend comes. Then, if I limited myself to only going out on Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, and also enforced a rule where I went to the gym either the day I went out in order to tighten up for my going out-fit, and also on days after I've gone out in order to sweat out my hangover, I'd end up working out four days a week. Finally, instead of only answering texts from boys who only talk to me after 11 pm, I could take one of the nice boys I know up on their offer to hang out soberly. From there, we could enter a bond beyond the party scene, and both of us could just cut the whole hard-to-get bullshit and have a functional relationship that doesn't
involve playing mind games.
But if this is the kind of life that I'll be forced to live once I graduate, what's the sense in living it now? Missing class because of a hangover is more forgivable than missing work because of one. And getting your favorite pair of Hanky Panky's back from the frat boy who's best friend dates your Big is way easier than getting them back from some guy you met at a bar downtown. It's healthy for me to get these unhealthy habits out of my system now while they're still forgivable. My existential crisis of exiting my teenage years started with the realization that I should grow more responsible to secure my future, but that led me to the opposite realization that the responsible thing to do now is act irresponsibly before a multitude of adult responsibilities are thrust upon me. On the edge of twenty, I realized that I might just be at an age where I need to do things that are bad for me. I need to stay out past 3 am the night before I have a midterm. I need to enjoy what is rapidly becoming the not-so-occasional cigarette while I'm drunk. I need to fall asleep in my makeup and contacts because I've fallen asleep in a bed other than my own. And I need to fuel myself with coffee and diet coke in order to rapidly get homework done so that I still have time in the day to tan without sunscreen. At this point in my life, it seems that the most unhealthy lifestyle I could lead would be one full of organic foods, sleeping, and furthermore sleeping next to someone with whom I have a functional relationship.
Showing posts with label Maturity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Maturity. Show all posts
4.18.2012
3.31.2012
Wax On, Wax Off
There comes a time in every young woman’s life when she needs to find the courage within herself to rip off the bandaid. And by bandaid, I mean wax strip. Like a below-the-belt Bat Mitzvah, your first bikini wax signifies the transition from girl to woman. And I figured what better time to take the plunge than before my college spring break trip. If my body could endure a 72 hour binge drinking bender in the beating sun, then it could also endure a little wax and a lot of body hair. So I booked the appointment for a wax at my local salon to make a quick pit stop to Brazil before my trip to Havasu.
The bravery coursed through my veins after I hung up with the receptionist, and I began associating my bikini wax with all the crazy times I was going to have on my trip. But my bravery fleeted me only hours later as I walked on wobbly legs to my car; it was the same nervous feeling I’d had before I got my belly button pieced, only this time the piercing pain would be between my thighs. I realized not only would this potentially be the most painful experience of my 19 years of living, but also the first time I’d be exposing my vataylor to a woman who had gone to beauty school instead of medical school. But this was something I had to do; razor burn and stubble were two things I would not be packing for my spring break trip.
I wobbled into the salon with wide eyes and a gaunt expression. The receptionist at the main desk directed me downstairs to the spa level where I sat my shaky nerves on a luxurious couch. Moments later, my waxer came out to greet me, then led me into a private room for me to take my pants off in. Perhaps I would have felt more at home if the waxing tables had been lofted like frat house bunk beds.
“I’m a little nervous,” I underexaggerated, “this is my first bikini wax.”
“Don’t be nervous! It’s a little painful, but when it’s done you’re gonna be like ‘why haven’t I been getting these all along?’” She was nice, I knew my chaste hair follicles were in good hands. “With a Brazilian wax, it’s normally best to take off everything.”
So with a deep breath, I unbuttoned my pants and pulled off both shorts and boyshorts. I felt like I was losing my virginity. I laid down on the table as the waxer snapped on a pair of latex gloves, then prepped her stick with wax. She spread the wax onto my skin and placed on the first strip. Paralyzed with fear, I laid there on the bed completely stiff.
“Take a deep breath,” she instructed.
I took as deep of a breath as my mildly abused lungs could hold, and on my exhale I felt the first rip. The pain was sharp but brief. In a bizarre way, it felt good. I could feel my bikini line being cleansed, and that was a cause worth suffering for. She pulled off strip after strip until I eventually became numb to the pain. My body was in a deep state of meditation as I felt my hair follicles being detoxed.
“Alright, all done.”
Resuscitated from my relaxation, I sprung up from the table and redressed.
“Thank you so much!” I told her as a strange adrenaline pumped through my veins.
I paid then walked to my car with a brand new pep in my step. I felt reborn, and was officially a waxing convert. And most of all, I was ready to go on spring break as a new woman.
I wobbled into the salon with wide eyes and a gaunt expression. The receptionist at the main desk directed me downstairs to the spa level where I sat my shaky nerves on a luxurious couch. Moments later, my waxer came out to greet me, then led me into a private room for me to take my pants off in. Perhaps I would have felt more at home if the waxing tables had been lofted like frat house bunk beds.
“I’m a little nervous,” I underexaggerated, “this is my first bikini wax.”
“Don’t be nervous! It’s a little painful, but when it’s done you’re gonna be like ‘why haven’t I been getting these all along?’” She was nice, I knew my chaste hair follicles were in good hands. “With a Brazilian wax, it’s normally best to take off everything.”
So with a deep breath, I unbuttoned my pants and pulled off both shorts and boyshorts. I felt like I was losing my virginity. I laid down on the table as the waxer snapped on a pair of latex gloves, then prepped her stick with wax. She spread the wax onto my skin and placed on the first strip. Paralyzed with fear, I laid there on the bed completely stiff.
“Take a deep breath,” she instructed.
I took as deep of a breath as my mildly abused lungs could hold, and on my exhale I felt the first rip. The pain was sharp but brief. In a bizarre way, it felt good. I could feel my bikini line being cleansed, and that was a cause worth suffering for. She pulled off strip after strip until I eventually became numb to the pain. My body was in a deep state of meditation as I felt my hair follicles being detoxed.
“Alright, all done.”
Resuscitated from my relaxation, I sprung up from the table and redressed.
“Thank you so much!” I told her as a strange adrenaline pumped through my veins.
I paid then walked to my car with a brand new pep in my step. I felt reborn, and was officially a waxing convert. And most of all, I was ready to go on spring break as a new woman.
2.27.2012
I'm Not A Girl, Not Yet A Woman
When I was a kid, I always had a looming suspicion that I was older than my birth certificate said. I was the same height and reading level as my older sister, which logically meant that I must be the same age as well. The following years held my hitting puberty before all of my classmates, buying my first bra before all of my friends, and thanks in part to my italian heritage, once again being the first to wax my eyebrows and co. From the very beginning I've always felt that my physical age was a year or two behind my internal age.
To this day, as a nineteen year old who, depending on the outfit, could pass for 25, my physical self often gets in the way of doing what my internal self loves most: drinking. My ID deficit never affects me when I go out to the fraternities or apartments, but whenever I want to flock to the bars with the mature crowd my physical self prevents that from happening. Thankfully, a bar on campus recently opened that's 18+ to enter and 21+ to drink. So this past week, my girlfriends and I decided that there was no better way to celebrate the last night of Mardi Gras than to hit up the bar in our festive attire of beads and beer goggles.
After a significant amount of pregaming, we stumbled our struts over to the 18+ bar. The atmosphere was vibing, the place was full of our peers and everyone was dripping in both beads and booze. My friends and I walked in, made our rounds, and after a brief lap around the place I arrived at the drunkenly determined decision that I was going to get a drink by whatever means necessary. I walked up to the bar bearing no ID and no money, only my most seductive eye contact. I set my gaze upon the bartender and unleashed a look that could have constituted sexual harassment. But by some metaphysical triumph, the bartender obediently gravitated over to me.
"What're you drinking?" He asked with a smile.
"Vodka tonic," I replied, still raping his soul with my eyes.
I watched as he made my drink, but before I could even slur out an excuse to free me from paying for it he just placed it on the bar and walked away. Stunned, I picked up the drink and turned to my friends. I couldn't believe my womanly powers were capable of waiving both currency and photo ID! My breasts are much more powerful than I thought, I internalized.
"What! How did you get that?!" My friends were jealous, which only made my success taste sweeter.
"The bartender just gave it to me!" Even saying it out loud I couldn't fully believe it.
"You're so lucky!"
"I know!!!" I felt on top of the world; I couldn't believe what I'd achieved with just a single look. I love being a woman.
I had a winner's thirst, so I took a sip of my vodka tonic to quench it. The taste of my drink was just as delicious as my victory. I swallowed my sip, and a second man immediately gravitated over to me, only this time it was a bouncer.
Shit! My heart dropped. No longer was I feeling sexy and confident.
"Do you have a wristband?" The bouncer didn't address me with the same grin the bartender had.
"I'm just holding it for a friend!" I tried to rape his soul but his eyes were deadened and mechanical.
"Let me see your ID." In lieu of a fake ID, I handed over my genuine 1992 license with the hope that he would be too distracted by my picture to look at my D.O.B.
He squinted his robotic eyes and shook his head. "Come with me," and with that he escorted me outside. "Don't let her back in," he said to the bouncer at the entrance, then went inside.
Within one minute I'd gone from feeling like the sexiest girl in the bar, to feeling like the biggest loser standing outside of the bar alone with the exception of a bouncer who wouldn't make nice despite my best efforts, all the while pathetically covered in sequins and beads.
"Pleeease let me back in, all of my friends are inside!" I didn't know whether he'd be more susceptible to crying or flirting.
"Can't do that," he said without even looking at me.
"Babyyy, pleaseee!" I guess I was taking the flirting route.
"Nope," he remained stone cold.
"Puh-leaseee, I promise I won't drink! Just let me back in, baby!"
He'd stopped answering me.
"Baby?"
Now he was just ignoring me.
"Fine! I'm gonna get raped walking home all alone and it'll be your fault!" Now I was angry, no one puts this baby in a corner.
He just shook his head, still unswayed by my new angry approach. However, I wasn't done ranting.
"You don't even understand how stupid this is for your business! Do you even know how many drinks I would've gotten bought for me tonight?!" I was trying to put on the air that I was "the shit," but in actuality standing outside alone foolishly in my costume at the absolute mercy of this fat, aged bouncer, I had never been less of "the shit" in my entire life. My womanly powers had fleeted me, and I was left outside in shame, standing there like a little girl who'd been put in the time-out corner.
Absolutely defeated, I realized that this was a battle I wasn't going to win regardless of how seductive or angry I got. I turned away and walked myself home, stuck in the awkward limbo between ages 18 and 21.
To this day, as a nineteen year old who, depending on the outfit, could pass for 25, my physical self often gets in the way of doing what my internal self loves most: drinking. My ID deficit never affects me when I go out to the fraternities or apartments, but whenever I want to flock to the bars with the mature crowd my physical self prevents that from happening. Thankfully, a bar on campus recently opened that's 18+ to enter and 21+ to drink. So this past week, my girlfriends and I decided that there was no better way to celebrate the last night of Mardi Gras than to hit up the bar in our festive attire of beads and beer goggles.
After a significant amount of pregaming, we stumbled our struts over to the 18+ bar. The atmosphere was vibing, the place was full of our peers and everyone was dripping in both beads and booze. My friends and I walked in, made our rounds, and after a brief lap around the place I arrived at the drunkenly determined decision that I was going to get a drink by whatever means necessary. I walked up to the bar bearing no ID and no money, only my most seductive eye contact. I set my gaze upon the bartender and unleashed a look that could have constituted sexual harassment. But by some metaphysical triumph, the bartender obediently gravitated over to me.
"What're you drinking?" He asked with a smile.
"Vodka tonic," I replied, still raping his soul with my eyes.
I watched as he made my drink, but before I could even slur out an excuse to free me from paying for it he just placed it on the bar and walked away. Stunned, I picked up the drink and turned to my friends. I couldn't believe my womanly powers were capable of waiving both currency and photo ID! My breasts are much more powerful than I thought, I internalized.
"What! How did you get that?!" My friends were jealous, which only made my success taste sweeter.
"The bartender just gave it to me!" Even saying it out loud I couldn't fully believe it.
"You're so lucky!"
"I know!!!" I felt on top of the world; I couldn't believe what I'd achieved with just a single look. I love being a woman.
I had a winner's thirst, so I took a sip of my vodka tonic to quench it. The taste of my drink was just as delicious as my victory. I swallowed my sip, and a second man immediately gravitated over to me, only this time it was a bouncer.
Shit! My heart dropped. No longer was I feeling sexy and confident.
"Do you have a wristband?" The bouncer didn't address me with the same grin the bartender had.
"I'm just holding it for a friend!" I tried to rape his soul but his eyes were deadened and mechanical.
"Let me see your ID." In lieu of a fake ID, I handed over my genuine 1992 license with the hope that he would be too distracted by my picture to look at my D.O.B.
He squinted his robotic eyes and shook his head. "Come with me," and with that he escorted me outside. "Don't let her back in," he said to the bouncer at the entrance, then went inside.
Within one minute I'd gone from feeling like the sexiest girl in the bar, to feeling like the biggest loser standing outside of the bar alone with the exception of a bouncer who wouldn't make nice despite my best efforts, all the while pathetically covered in sequins and beads.
"Pleeease let me back in, all of my friends are inside!" I didn't know whether he'd be more susceptible to crying or flirting.
"Can't do that," he said without even looking at me.
"Babyyy, pleaseee!" I guess I was taking the flirting route.
"Nope," he remained stone cold.
"Puh-leaseee, I promise I won't drink! Just let me back in, baby!"
He'd stopped answering me.
"Baby?"
Now he was just ignoring me.
"Fine! I'm gonna get raped walking home all alone and it'll be your fault!" Now I was angry, no one puts this baby in a corner.
He just shook his head, still unswayed by my new angry approach. However, I wasn't done ranting.
"You don't even understand how stupid this is for your business! Do you even know how many drinks I would've gotten bought for me tonight?!" I was trying to put on the air that I was "the shit," but in actuality standing outside alone foolishly in my costume at the absolute mercy of this fat, aged bouncer, I had never been less of "the shit" in my entire life. My womanly powers had fleeted me, and I was left outside in shame, standing there like a little girl who'd been put in the time-out corner.
Absolutely defeated, I realized that this was a battle I wasn't going to win regardless of how seductive or angry I got. I turned away and walked myself home, stuck in the awkward limbo between ages 18 and 21.
1.25.2012
What's My Age Again?
As a little girl, my pimp of a mother would arrange bath time playdates between me and almost every little boy on my block. Time that wasn't spent in the tub was still spent nakedly playing "doctor." In short, my naked history with boys goes far back. But some time between kindergarten and first grade, I ditched my pre-med life and stopped playing naked doctor with boys in exchange for injecting cootie-shots with my girl friends. It wasn't until years later upon reaching sexual maturity that my interest in the male anatomy resurfaced, and so the naked playdates recommenced.
Playtime in college is vastly more enjoyable than the playdates of our youth. We're mature young adults now, meaning we're of a, legal or not, drinking age, and the permissible age to sign an apartment lease independent from parental authority. Week in and week out, I find myself playing doctor with young men regardless of if they're on the road to medical school or not. These boys don't need to call their moms for permission to sleep over, and don't refer to their junk as "private parts" or "pee pees." In contrary, private parts have become exceedingly public. However, I should have expected that when things seem too good to be true, they probably are. This past Saturday night, or more accurately Sunday morning, served as a wake up call that I've been taking sexual maturity for granted. I now find myself wondering if we all innately reach sexual maturity through human biology, or if some of us forever remain kids at heart.
The night started out no different from the standard mature young adult night. My friends and I took advantage of the free-for-all-who-have-a-vagina alcohol at our favorite fraternity and danced the fine line between incoherent and fun. Somewhere amidst the dancing on couches and shotgun competitions, I ran into one of my casual guy friends. Let it be said that, in college, when I say "guy friend" I mean an attractive acquaintance with whom I maintain a friendly relationship for the provisional goal of eventually hooking up with them. This guy friend was no exception, so I was down to fool around.
Less than an hour later and without the permission of our parents, my guy friend and I decided to have a sleepover at his apartment which is exactly how I woke up that Sunday morning to his manly arms cuddling me. Sexual maturity rocks.
"Hey," he said in a sleepy voice, then laid an equally sleepy kiss on my lips.
"Mhmm, good morning," the fact that I didn't wake up spewing out a slur of groggy obscenities the way I typically do when being roused from my sleep is a miracle in itself.
"I had a lot of fun hanging out with you last night," he smiled with his cute smile.
"Yeah, I really did too," I couldn't help but smile back. But after a few seconds of us drowsily smiling at each other, I jolted into panic when I realized that my study group of nerds had inconsiderately decided that we meet on a Sunday morning. "Oh shit, what time is it? I have a study group at 9 and need to shower before."
He reached his sculpted, fratty bicep over and checked his phone.
"It's 8," he gave me yet another smile and pulled me on top of him, "still a little time to fool around."
Though I am absolutely not a morning person, and I had a truly exceptional hangover, I was totally into this. So despite my pounding head, I indulged in the sleepy bliss of kissing in the morning. But my bliss was short lived; after a couple of minutes, my guy friend was trying to push my pounding head down to give him head. He wanted to play doctor by giving me an injection in the mouth, and my hangover and I were not down to go down. I resisted his push, but then he started begging.
"Aww, please baby, please! Just go down!" His smile was cute, but not that cute.
"No, I don't want to right now," it was way too early for this shit.
"Please, Taylor!" His incessant begging was quickly getting on my nerves.
"No, stop it," how could I tell him that the only thing I wanted in my mouth was a hot cup of coffee?
"Ughhhh, come on Tay!" he pleaded as he kept pushing me downward. I'd reached my limit.
"Seriously, stop! You're really annoying me!" I felt silly scolding him, but it was necessary.
Just when I thought I'd put up with his worst, he rolled away from me onto his side of the bed and whined under his breath "Well, you're annoying me..."
My jaw dropped; If I hadn't been rendered speechless, I wouldn't have known whether to laugh or get angry at his childish display. One thing was certain, I'd been snapped out of our playtime. I realized I wasn't lying next to a sexy and mature young man, I was lying next to a big baby with a big dick.
I didn't have time to babysit, so I got out of bed and gathered my stuff, "Okay, see you later."
"Wait, stop,"he said as I moved towards the door, "at least let me walk you downstairs."
I wanted to make a snide remark about how his mother had taught him such good manners, but I didn't want to piss him off since I needed him to walk me downstairs and I also needed to borrow his shirt so I wouldn't have to commit the disgraceful crime of wearing sequins in the morning.
Once I was freed from his apartment, I spent my walk home not sprinting in shame, but instead comprehending what had just gone down in result of not going down. I started to think that sexual maturity isn't something everyone arrives at after puberty, but rather something that a small minority arrives at from proper emotional development. Just because someone can get a boner, it doesn't necessarily mean they're qualified to use it. In the short walk from his apartment to my dorm room I'd once again lost all hope in men. I realized that the little boys I used to have bathtimes with had better manners than the college boy whose apartment I'd just slept over at.
Playtime in college is vastly more enjoyable than the playdates of our youth. We're mature young adults now, meaning we're of a, legal or not, drinking age, and the permissible age to sign an apartment lease independent from parental authority. Week in and week out, I find myself playing doctor with young men regardless of if they're on the road to medical school or not. These boys don't need to call their moms for permission to sleep over, and don't refer to their junk as "private parts" or "pee pees." In contrary, private parts have become exceedingly public. However, I should have expected that when things seem too good to be true, they probably are. This past Saturday night, or more accurately Sunday morning, served as a wake up call that I've been taking sexual maturity for granted. I now find myself wondering if we all innately reach sexual maturity through human biology, or if some of us forever remain kids at heart.
The night started out no different from the standard mature young adult night. My friends and I took advantage of the free-for-all-who-have-a-vagina alcohol at our favorite fraternity and danced the fine line between incoherent and fun. Somewhere amidst the dancing on couches and shotgun competitions, I ran into one of my casual guy friends. Let it be said that, in college, when I say "guy friend" I mean an attractive acquaintance with whom I maintain a friendly relationship for the provisional goal of eventually hooking up with them. This guy friend was no exception, so I was down to fool around.
Less than an hour later and without the permission of our parents, my guy friend and I decided to have a sleepover at his apartment which is exactly how I woke up that Sunday morning to his manly arms cuddling me. Sexual maturity rocks.
"Hey," he said in a sleepy voice, then laid an equally sleepy kiss on my lips.
"Mhmm, good morning," the fact that I didn't wake up spewing out a slur of groggy obscenities the way I typically do when being roused from my sleep is a miracle in itself.
"I had a lot of fun hanging out with you last night," he smiled with his cute smile.
"Yeah, I really did too," I couldn't help but smile back. But after a few seconds of us drowsily smiling at each other, I jolted into panic when I realized that my study group of nerds had inconsiderately decided that we meet on a Sunday morning. "Oh shit, what time is it? I have a study group at 9 and need to shower before."
He reached his sculpted, fratty bicep over and checked his phone.
"It's 8," he gave me yet another smile and pulled me on top of him, "still a little time to fool around."
Though I am absolutely not a morning person, and I had a truly exceptional hangover, I was totally into this. So despite my pounding head, I indulged in the sleepy bliss of kissing in the morning. But my bliss was short lived; after a couple of minutes, my guy friend was trying to push my pounding head down to give him head. He wanted to play doctor by giving me an injection in the mouth, and my hangover and I were not down to go down. I resisted his push, but then he started begging.
"Aww, please baby, please! Just go down!" His smile was cute, but not that cute.
"No, I don't want to right now," it was way too early for this shit.
"Please, Taylor!" His incessant begging was quickly getting on my nerves.
"No, stop it," how could I tell him that the only thing I wanted in my mouth was a hot cup of coffee?
"Ughhhh, come on Tay!" he pleaded as he kept pushing me downward. I'd reached my limit.
"Seriously, stop! You're really annoying me!" I felt silly scolding him, but it was necessary.
Just when I thought I'd put up with his worst, he rolled away from me onto his side of the bed and whined under his breath "Well, you're annoying me..."
My jaw dropped; If I hadn't been rendered speechless, I wouldn't have known whether to laugh or get angry at his childish display. One thing was certain, I'd been snapped out of our playtime. I realized I wasn't lying next to a sexy and mature young man, I was lying next to a big baby with a big dick.
I didn't have time to babysit, so I got out of bed and gathered my stuff, "Okay, see you later."
"Wait, stop,"he said as I moved towards the door, "at least let me walk you downstairs."
I wanted to make a snide remark about how his mother had taught him such good manners, but I didn't want to piss him off since I needed him to walk me downstairs and I also needed to borrow his shirt so I wouldn't have to commit the disgraceful crime of wearing sequins in the morning.
Once I was freed from his apartment, I spent my walk home not sprinting in shame, but instead comprehending what had just gone down in result of not going down. I started to think that sexual maturity isn't something everyone arrives at after puberty, but rather something that a small minority arrives at from proper emotional development. Just because someone can get a boner, it doesn't necessarily mean they're qualified to use it. In the short walk from his apartment to my dorm room I'd once again lost all hope in men. I realized that the little boys I used to have bathtimes with had better manners than the college boy whose apartment I'd just slept over at.
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