Evidence that I'm a woman:
- I can put on earrings without looking for the holes in a mirror.
- I can give you a to-the-hundred estimate of what's in my checking account at any given time.
- I don't feel any desire to buy vending machine candy bars.
- I keep my keys on a hook and my jewelry in a box.
- I keep track of appointments on a calendar.
- I get really excited by Target's kitchen supply section.
- All my coats have a matching pair of gloves in their front pockets.
- I rarely eat anything containing neon food coloring.
- I think jeans belong on the floor. (Anyone who claims it's convenient to fold them over slippery hangers or stack of them where they'll never be seen is pretentious/lying.)
- I don't keep bank deposit slips in my glove compartment.
- Regarding makeup, I haven't yet found a balance between Completely Bare and Crack Whore.
- Sometimes I let empty toilet paper rolls collect into a cardboard tube graveyard instead of just throwing them away.
- I still buy $4 magazines even though I know they're brainwashing and catalogueish and wasteful and satanic and all that.
- I can't make eye contact with the condom/pregnancy test/any-tube-with-the-word-"vaginal"-on-it aisle.
- I recently made my mother convince me there wasn't a murderer in my house.
- I'm, like, really pumped that they're making new Sailor Moon episodes.
I don't have the slightest idea how one is supposed to handle this transition. Ingest illegal substances? Get a mom haircut? Listen to the second track of every Broadway musical recording, wherein the protagonist invariably sings about how something's coming and they've gotta find their purpose and their corner of the sky and their one song glory? I don't know. I don't know. So I'm taking baby steps. Today, I clean out my childhood bedroom.
It's amazing how this room-- which used to be my only sanctuary of semi-privacy, where I could be my absolute self-- is suddenly a hot pink memorial to some kid who doesn't exist anymore. This polkadot rug that everyone said was ugly but I swore represented my unique style? It's ugly. The books that once changed my life are suddenly "cute." I can't decipher the metaphors in old journaled poems, I can't comprehend why something as hideous as this lamp would dare to exist, I can't remember what led me to attempt a "mural" on my closet wall. This room is a time capsule, a museum exhibit... a complete mess.
First task: eliminate any and all clothing that rings even the tiniest bit pubescent. I keep catching myself mulling over sweaters and being all, "Oh, this is still good! I got it during my freshman year of high school! That was only... seven years ago." Nope. Goodbye, tank tops with broken lace. Ciao, good-intentioned tops that look pretty on hangers but don't cover my boobs. I'm forcing myself to toss anything emblazoned with an embroidered seagull or designed for someone awaiting her first period. Discharging all Abercrombie products, pronto.
Sigh. The thing is, I'm getting pretty good at not being a child, but I'm still awful at being an adult. What are women supposed to wear? Like, khakis? I know the applique sweater vests don't come until later, and I think I'm supposed to own a lot of sparkly things for going to bars, but that's as close as I've come to figuring it out. I'll let you know if I wake up tomorrow with an insatiable desire to purchase control-top pantyhose. Until then, it's back to Britney Spearsing for me. I'm not a girl, not yet a woman, and not anywhere near done de-Hollister-izing my bedroom floor. See you guys soon!
