I am so glad I’m not twelve years old. And no, not just because I couldn’t drink or drive or watch dirty movies, although those are wonderful things for which I’m really not as grateful as I should be. I’m glad I’m not twelve because I couldn’t handle it. I don’t have the cojones, so to speak, to be a twelve-year-old girl in the 21st century.
The sister of The Boy is twelve, and so is her flock of high-pitched friends. I was twelve in 1990. Post-neon, pre-grunge. And I enjoyed seventh grade, as much as possible but really, I don’t recall it being the Time of My Life. As far as recorded history goes I was SERIOUSLY in need of a makeover and a fat camp, so perhaps I’m just envious. But I had plenty to think about then, besides all the terrible things kids have to worry about now. Things like “what is this puberty stuff and what is UP with my body” and “are boys still gross” and “could anyone possibly be as weird as my science teacher” (looking back on it, no) and “what’s this whole war in Iraq thing?” Maybe things aren’t as different as I thought. But there’s so much more now… not that I had this “Wonder Years” existence (or maybe I did – I hated “The Wonder Years”) but it just didn’t seem to have as much sex and drugs and preturnatural knowledge without understanding.
Still sick, cranky, and now nostalgic for 1990, I’m gonna go do some homework that I’ve been putting off. The more things change….
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