No, you don’t even understand. This was the best to me in fourth grade because I kept thinking, “Oh my God. No boy is ever going to kiss me.” Sure, I was nine, but I’ve been wanting to be an adult since I was born. I think some kids aren’t meant to be kids. I surely wasn’t. I was just born with a weird ability for introspection that retroactively aged me forty years. I was super creepy about it to the point where I would call classmates out on things and they would swear I was psychic or that I was a witch. I think I scared a lot of kids. And apparently my teacher. It’s far less impressive to analyze people at 26 after you’ve already been melted down by media and society and shaped into this person ready to be packaged and shipped out into the world, but when you’re nine and you’re pure and you tell Peter Stewart that the reason he acted out in school was probably because he was the youngest child in a broken home and Mrs. Teich overhears and makes you apologize for letting things get a little too real in classroom 11, you just inherently know you’re shitty at being nine but you’ll be awesome at being 23. I firmly believe I hit my perfect age to person ratio at 23. I say that even though 25 was a solid year and I expect 27 to be good, too. 77 will most likely be my second peak because I love, love, love everything old people love and I hate, hate, hate everything they hate, too.
At nine, I was waiting to be 16 because in my head I was already 23 and that’s a difficult place to be. This is the opposite problem I have now where I look in the mirror and I feel like a fat little nine-year-old. Back in elementary school, I thought of myself as much more sophisticated than my peers and that’s because even though I was (read: am) terrible at spelling, I was (read: am) much more sophisticated than my peers.
Case in point: the day I saw Clueless was a half-day at school. It had gone all right. I had a geography test on Arizona or so my fourth grade journal tells me. I was wearing a black shift dress my mom had made me. It was adorable. But I was fat. Mario Garcia usually didn’t mind this. He was one of the few boys who were nice to me at school, but he was friends with this ugly blonde boy with buck teeth who wasn’t so nice to me. His name escapes me, but I’m sure it was Brandon or Michael as everyone at my school was named Brandon or Michael. I hope to God this kid got braces.
After school as I waited for my mom, Mario Garcia took umbrage over something. I’m not sure what. Maybe it was that he had a crush on Tiffany S. (not to be confused with Tiffany B.) and I figured this out and casually mentioned it as we walked to the swings. His reply was not to get mad or to yell upon my ‘psychic’ discovery, it was simply to spit on me. And my reply to that was to immediately vomit everywhere, including on him. And his reply to that was to yell, “Fuck you!”
It was the first, “fuck you!” I ever got, but it certainly wasn’t the last.
My mom picked me up and my face was swollen from crying and I was starving, not because I threw up, but because I was always starving and still am, and I cried until my head hurt, though the vomiting didn’t help.
My mother told me to get out of my bespittled clothes and get into the oversized men’s shirt I wore as a coverup to dance recitals. I loved dancing, but that men’s oversized shirt, tights, and full make-up was the best thing about dance to me and possibly the reason why I think females should be allowed to wear just an oxford shirt and tights anywhere in public if they really want to.
"Let’s rent a movie," she said. "There’s one I think you’ll like called Clueless?"
My mom was right. I loved the movie. It made my bad day okay. I ate a Pop Tart or two or three and studied the movie hard, the way a smart person might study for their LSAT. I studied movies and books and television like I was Jane Goodall with the monkeys. To me, like a lot of girls out there, Cher embodied the kind of spirited, young, all-American girl I wanted to be (but only because I was too young to see how oddly misguided she was and I quickly forgot her mom was dead because she had so much money) and while as a kid the ex-step-brother thing was weird to me, though admittedly no weirder than Mary marrying cousin Matthew on Downton Abbey, I remember thinking oh, wait, cultured guys exist? Ones who don’t spit on you? I just have to get out of elementary school? This was a revelation to me.
And so I waited. I waited a long time.
I had a while to really sit and think about the kind of romance I wanted and the kind of person I wanted to be. I wrote countless terrible fucking stories about orphans (my morbid mind fucking LOVED orphans) and children who find secret gardens (may or may not have been entirely a rip-off of The Secret Garden-again, about Sarah Crew who was essentially an orphan) and I somehow innately knew that if I just kept doing what I wanted to do and being true to myself, then I wouldn’t have to worry about finding ‘the right friends’ or the ‘the right guy’ or ‘the perfect job’ because these things would just fly into my life.
A lot of people are aware at the volumes of journals I’ve kept ever since I could write and a few of my friends (okay. it was my mom) recently asked me, “What would you tell your younger self now?”
The truth is, I don’t really have anything to tell her. She kind of already had everything under control. I might just tell her to relax more and not to get too upset about an A- to the point where she can’t sleep at night as bad sleep patterns and a pre-disposition to anxiety just create problems later on. I think I would also probably tell her to stop pining after Joshua Cohen because that boy liked other boys and this starts a vicious circle of un-dating that doesn’t end until after high school. But if she had just seen Clueless, she would probably just say, “As if.”
(Source: whatdidyoufillmeupwith, via stephaniedanielle)