Am I really this old? And powercouples
Everywhere I turn, there is an adorable power couple, basking in their self-reflected glory of their corporate ladder success.
It could be self-inflicted: this is what I get for going out with my boarding school boys,who have beautifully blossomed into perfect realestate entreprenuers, investment bankers, financial consultants, etc... complete with looks, charm and the bucks to back it all up. Did I mention their slew of gorgeous girls? Poor things, they won't know what hit them. Don't get me wrong, I *love* my friends.. i just wouldn't ever date them. As one of them said in response to my complaining about the impending psychology grad-school costs that will plague me for at least the next 8 years, "Don't worry Jess, we'll take care of you" Because that right there, that is exactly what I'm worried about.
Sure it should be every girl's dream to find a rich husband to wait on her and give her sparkly, shiny things. And although I am not opposed to (laboratory grown) sparkly shiny things, I am absolutely terrified of becoming domesticated. Like one of those perfectly groomed lap-dogs with a sparkly-shiny nametag on her collar, smelling like roses with little boots and matching rain jacket. I mean, if I'm going to be a dog, let me be a big sloppy dog, right? Well the same thing goes for rich wives. I mean, I think I'm a little less Paris Hilton-y, rich body obsessed housewife who gets her kicks by doing coke and drinking heavily when the hubby is out of town, and a little more Audrey Hepburn in "Breakfast At Tiffany's", uptown girl who acts like a complete lunatic and yet is somehow completely self-sufficient.
Powercouples are on the TV (you've got Brad and Angelina, Kate and Tom), they're in the bars with their matching razor phones, driving around in their SUVs with matching license plates like love notes. They're my friends, they look so happy and organized and cleancut and I know my parents would love for me to find someone to straighten me out like that, to take me to the *best* restaurants and live in the *best* cities and travel to the *best* countries all over the world. But man, that just seems so overwhelming right now.
Sometimes I just can't believe how old I am. Because, really, my time for messing around and being creative feels like it's running out. It's not running out, not really. It's just I had this idea that college would be this time where I finally found *my* people. You know, find people that come home every day just excited out of their minds about something that happened, some idea they had during class, or dying to play me some piece of music they wrote, or show me the story they stayed up all night last night writing, not for class, but just to fucking write. Where has the excitement of youth gone? And why do I feel as though, on this strange road which in so many ways caused me to skip adolescence and go right into mature pre-adulthood, has made me lose the juvinile irrationality and spontenaity that I crave?
Maybe that's why I cringe when I see my friends attatched to their blackberries, unable to turn off a cell phone for more than 10 minutes, and why I love some of my other friends who don't have cell phones or computers and are constantly moving to brooklyn or philadelphia or panama city or paris or santa fe and are impossible to get ahold of because of it. We are just animals, preoccupied with the toys our masters give us. Perhaps we have lost a bit of the passion along the way.
Thanks power-couples, but no thanks. You can have your Zunes, your high-tech blackberries, your matching mercedes. I'll stick with the musicians and artists of the world, a run-down studio in philadelphia, scrambling at the end of every month to make rent and a bike to transport us from our late shift at a bar, instead of a car because gas prices are just ridiculous and who really needs to drive in a city this size. We've got the best chinese take-out place on speed dial already anyway.
It could be self-inflicted: this is what I get for going out with my boarding school boys,who have beautifully blossomed into perfect realestate entreprenuers, investment bankers, financial consultants, etc... complete with looks, charm and the bucks to back it all up. Did I mention their slew of gorgeous girls? Poor things, they won't know what hit them. Don't get me wrong, I *love* my friends.. i just wouldn't ever date them. As one of them said in response to my complaining about the impending psychology grad-school costs that will plague me for at least the next 8 years, "Don't worry Jess, we'll take care of you" Because that right there, that is exactly what I'm worried about.
Sure it should be every girl's dream to find a rich husband to wait on her and give her sparkly, shiny things. And although I am not opposed to (laboratory grown) sparkly shiny things, I am absolutely terrified of becoming domesticated. Like one of those perfectly groomed lap-dogs with a sparkly-shiny nametag on her collar, smelling like roses with little boots and matching rain jacket. I mean, if I'm going to be a dog, let me be a big sloppy dog, right? Well the same thing goes for rich wives. I mean, I think I'm a little less Paris Hilton-y, rich body obsessed housewife who gets her kicks by doing coke and drinking heavily when the hubby is out of town, and a little more Audrey Hepburn in "Breakfast At Tiffany's", uptown girl who acts like a complete lunatic and yet is somehow completely self-sufficient.
Powercouples are on the TV (you've got Brad and Angelina, Kate and Tom), they're in the bars with their matching razor phones, driving around in their SUVs with matching license plates like love notes. They're my friends, they look so happy and organized and cleancut and I know my parents would love for me to find someone to straighten me out like that, to take me to the *best* restaurants and live in the *best* cities and travel to the *best* countries all over the world. But man, that just seems so overwhelming right now.
Sometimes I just can't believe how old I am. Because, really, my time for messing around and being creative feels like it's running out. It's not running out, not really. It's just I had this idea that college would be this time where I finally found *my* people. You know, find people that come home every day just excited out of their minds about something that happened, some idea they had during class, or dying to play me some piece of music they wrote, or show me the story they stayed up all night last night writing, not for class, but just to fucking write. Where has the excitement of youth gone? And why do I feel as though, on this strange road which in so many ways caused me to skip adolescence and go right into mature pre-adulthood, has made me lose the juvinile irrationality and spontenaity that I crave?
Maybe that's why I cringe when I see my friends attatched to their blackberries, unable to turn off a cell phone for more than 10 minutes, and why I love some of my other friends who don't have cell phones or computers and are constantly moving to brooklyn or philadelphia or panama city or paris or santa fe and are impossible to get ahold of because of it. We are just animals, preoccupied with the toys our masters give us. Perhaps we have lost a bit of the passion along the way.
Thanks power-couples, but no thanks. You can have your Zunes, your high-tech blackberries, your matching mercedes. I'll stick with the musicians and artists of the world, a run-down studio in philadelphia, scrambling at the end of every month to make rent and a bike to transport us from our late shift at a bar, instead of a car because gas prices are just ridiculous and who really needs to drive in a city this size. We've got the best chinese take-out place on speed dial already anyway.
posted by Jessica @ 8:25 AM
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