Dancing to Prince in my underwear
I always envy a girl taller than myself. I have always loathed being short and having a tall side of the family reminds me constantly of my short stature and the short side does nothing to make me feel bigger because they are all dead.
Oh stop it. They are, it’s just a fact.
I always envy a girl with better hair than I have. No matter that a million hairdressers have told me while I was younger that I had the best hair. I would have preferred straight blond hair that had the ability to be feathered. Now my hair is falling out and thin and stringy and I still think I have bad hair and I’m right.
I totally think I am going bald.
Shut up, I am.
I have always envied girls with scads of confidence and the balls to not be afraid of anything or anyone. Girls who could hold a boy by their pink by his dick and walk away whenever they wanted versus waiting by the phone. Girls who could play it cool, hang in there until the boy came to his senses. I am neither cool, nor patient enough nor clever enough to do any of those things.
Oh shut up. Having had lots of boyfriends might just mean I am slutty, not alluring.
When dancing around to MTV and Prince singing 1999 and not being able to fathom what life could be like so close the year 2000 I would just try to be okay with the moment and okay with my small breasts, fat thighs, frizzy hair and complete ignorance of how life actually worked. I could not imagine it. Even a little bit. In 1999 I would be 28 and when you are 11 in 1982 that seems like an eternity-even though that feels like a cliché.
Oh shut up. I know it’s actually a cliché.
Sometimes your past comes up fast as though you are on a superfast moving sidewalk at the airport and you are going somewhere fabulous because when you are old the past seems fabulous even when, at the time, you felt like you could just die.