This morning, a man of 26 short years on this earth who cannot communicate in languages other than SMS and who does not know what The Breakfast Club is, accused me of carrying on like a teenager. Louix XIV, the cherished advisor and beautiful soul that he is, almost stopped breathing this week as a result of the network problems at Blackberry so maybe he is still reeling from the shock of having to actually talk to actual human beings. All the same, there was no need to be nasty.
I am not a teenager. If a teenager is a glass of fruity fresh Sauvignon Blanc from the New World then I am a rich and spicy Bourgogne. A few years off becoming a cellared oaky Bordeaux, but not that far off. However I have to admit, Louis may have a point.
Being a teenager was not a whole lot of fun for me. I spent lengthy periods reading lengthy books, then dedicated lengthy pages to writing about the lengthy books and then spent lengthy days carrying the lengthy books on a three hour commute to my school. I was a scholarship kid at a private school full of wealthy kids who spent their days dreaming up new ways of spending their parents’ money; ways that usually involved copious amounts of home-grown drugs. Meanwhile I had a part time job in a bakery and was saving my money for a life-changing trip overseas. Everything I was doing was dedicated to the attainment of a goal. Get the best grades school. Get to France. Get into Sydney University. Get out of the suburbs. Get out of home.
Add to that a rather destructive relationship with my father-in-inverted-commas and you have a perfect recipe for an over-achieving somewhat bookish teenager who never got the boy.
My teenage years were not the stuff of Beverly Hills 90210 where Kelly got to choose between Dylan and Brandon. Nor was it lifted from the pages of Sweet Valley High where those twins wore matching outfits and had matching boyfriends. It was more like an interminable version the excellent Kevin Spacy movie, American Beauty. Only there were three kids and no ‘beautiful’ floating plastic bags, just plain old rubbish.
Fortunately, I did get to university and I did get out of home. Rent in Sydney doesn’t come cheap so I was waiting tables on weekends and had to settle for partying after my split shift with the line cooks instead of spending any time with my fellow university students doing cool studenty stuff like discussing the finer points of socialism, Salinger or sex.
Graduating, just barely given my exceptional hatred of German grammar, I finally started working. I have spent the years since being very ambitious, somewhat successful and very nomadic. Moving so many times around the world does not allow for very many long-term friendships. Most of my friends now live in places far far away. I am not complaining, I chose to do this. Only do remember Louis, this was all BC, Before Computers. Staying in touch today is dramatically facilitated by the advent of Facebook and Skype for which I will be eternally thankful.
Most recently, I have spent the last three years in the company of an antisocial psychopath which has resulted in lots of time in fighting the unwinnable battle that is trying to make someone else happy and very limited time spent having any actual fun.
So I have cashed in all of my adult responsibilities and become a teenager.
Not cooking and eating fast food for breakfast. Going to a gym and updating my Facebook status while I run. Rarely cleaning. Not removing my make-up before bed. Wearing the same clothes two days in a row after they spend the night in between on the floor. Buying very expensive toys and top shelf Vodka#. Throwing back shots of minty flavoured unidentified alcohol given to me by random men sitting next to me in a bar. Singing pop songs in an underground Karaoke Bar at the top of my lungs. Dancing my thighs away in the middle of a crowded bar while wearing a denim mini-skirt. Stomping the streets in shiny shoes and sparkly eye shadow and blue nail polish. Getting home at 3am on a weeknight. Discovering gigantic bruises all over my body in the morning and not knowing how they got there. Developing all consuming crushes on 25-year-old men who look like Ashton Kutcher and wishing I were Demi. It is all part of the fun.
Louis, if that makes me a teenager, then so be it.
I am finally over him.
#It is true that the most significant benefit of being a teenager at 35 is the significant increase in cashflow
Love U!
Louis XIV
Posted by: louis XIV | 10/15/2011 at 02:35 PM