- A computer killed itself during the production of this episode. I don’t think that was a reflection on the quality of the jokes.
- This is the 3,000th video I’ve forced my kid brother to participate in against his will. I also make him mow the lawn at my house, because I am afraid of the lawn mower. Sometimes I buy him candy to make up for this behavior.
- I have yet to find a bug that’s cool enough to make people want to be my friend.
P.S., A true friend of mine would subscribe to Life and Steph. Hint, hint.
I was listening to a podcast the other day (I know we just started this post, but let’s take a quick tangent here. It is so cool that this is the future and I can use my tiny pocket computer to order a radio program down from the sky and play it anywhere I want, any time I want, and it’s called a podcast. That sounds like something straight out of a science fiction novel, and not like something that occasionally lulls me to sleep, resulting in me drooling on my tiny pocket computer. OK, back to the thing.) and the guest said that being in your 20s is like a second puberty.
Good thing I dodged that bullet, I laughed to myself, picking at one of several zits that recently appeared on my chin.
I was still thinking about it the next day. Being in your 20s isn’t like second puberty at all, I said aloud to the cats while browsing online stores for clothes that would finally make me cool.
I can’t even imagine going through that horrible nightmare again, I thought two days later, doing my best not to burst into tears about nothing at all. I was having the weirdest sense of déjà vu.
Finally, halfway through a meal that consisted of everything in my kitchen, I had an epiphany. Hey, I thought. This is totally crazy, but I’m starting to think that being in your 20s might be like going through a second puberty. Actually, that would explain a lot.
- My body is doing weird stuff. It took my neck a week to feel better after I slept on it funny, and now it does this weird, wet popping thing every time I tilt it. Also, gaining weight is suddenly easy. Frighteningly easy.
- I’m really moody. The tiniest things can set me off. One minute I’m on top of the world, and the next I’d like to crawl into a hole and die. Today I actually threw a temper tantrum. It’s like seventh grade all over again.
- I keep experimenting with new identities. Who am I? What do I want? How do I get there? How much eyeliner is required?
- I’ve been wearing a lot of eyeliner. And I purchased it because I was feeling emotional and thought eyeliner would fix everything. I’m pretty sure I had the exact same conversation with myself when I was 13.
- No one thinks I’m cool. And I’m trying really, really hard to be cool. Because cool kids have a lot of friends. Oh yeah…
- I’m struggling to make new friends and keep the old ones around. In eighth grade, my parents encouraged me to join a soccer team to meet people. I don’t want to join another soccer team.
- What is the deal with boys? I just figured out dating them, and now my friends are marrying them. I’m still a little worried about catching cooties.
- Adults are being condescending. I don’t have everything figured out, ok? YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT I’M GOING THROUGH. NO ONE UNDERSTANDS ME.
Being in your 20s is almost exactly like middle school all over again. The only difference is that instead of everyone judging me based on my shoes, they’re judging me based on the personality I developed to get through Puberty #1.
I had a lot of coping mechanisms for Puberty #1, as I recall.
- Eye-rolling. A powerful weapon against my parents, I’ve found that it’s harder to get away with a good eye roll in the workplace. That’s stupid because I’ve been in some meetings that could have benefited from some well-timed disrespect.
- Endlessly rereading To Kill a Mockingbird. Jem understood seventh-grade me, and Atticus understood Jem so he understood me, too. Now I feel more like Boo Radley.
- Distracting myself with intense crushes. I found love in the middle of Puberty #1 thanks to David Bowie in Labyrinth and Orlando Bloom in the Lord of the Rings trilogy. But that’s no help these days because no one has heard from Orlando Bloom since 2006 and Bowie has returned to his home in a glittery purple supernova.
- Looooooooooooooooooong phone calls with my friends. I can’t remember what we talked about for four hours at a time, but whatever it was, it worked. I tried to call my middle school friends on their landlines like old times, but Hannah’s been married for four years and Kristin moved to Florida.
- Getting really into lite rock. Eventually I found out about actual rock music, but there was a weird period between ages 11 and 12 when I would only listen to programs hosted by sultry female DJs on stations with names like KOSI. I don’t need lite rock anymore. I have podcasts. (See? It sounds like a luxury spaceship feature.)
- Writing terrible poetry. I don’t even want to talk about it.
I seem to remember that not one of these strategies worked. A few of them made puberty even more frustrating (looking at you, passionate crush on 1986 David Bowie.)
Unfortunately, I think the only way to get through the horrible, soggy marsh that is pubescence is to age out of it. I remember counting the days until I turned 18, because then I’d be free. (That’s not how it works, of course, but it gave me hope in my darkest, most poetry-heavy hours.)
The good news is that it’s only 1,432 days until I turn 30.
We haven’t been able to use my house’s back door for two days, ever since I broke it during a stressful video shoot for work that ran until midnight. This means that my roommate and I can only use the front door until I can get to the hardware store and set aside time to install a new handle and lock. Normally this would only be a medium-sized inconvenience, but not this week. This week Benito, the cat we just adopted, is lying in wait on the other side of that door, waiting to pounce on our heads and bounce away forever. Also waiting behind the front door: the awful, awful stench that Benito brought into our home with him. (Thanks, testosterone!)
In sixth grade, I transferred to a new middle school. My classmate, Kyle, was the only other person who transferred from elementary school with me, and while we got along, we didn’t have a ton in common. At recess the first day, Kyle left with a group of boys to play football and I sat down on a bench and stared at the dirt.
After about five minutes, a girl from my class sat down next to me. “I’m Alissa!” she said.
“I’m Stephanie,” I said. We both stared at the dirt.
“Can you see those ants?” she asked. “Sometimes I feel like I have some kind of super bug vision because I can zero in on them no matter where I’m looking.”
“I see a lot of bugs, too!” I said, and suddenly we were friends. We had sleepovers and played foursquare during recess, and when I moved to Hawaii at the end of the semester, she wrote me letters at my new address.
When I was four, I had a conversation with my best friend’s brother, who was a few years older than us. I don’t remember how it started, but I do remember that he was bragging about all the cool things older kids could do.
My response to this was to say, “But you can’t shoot a cannon even if you wanted to, huh?” He had no comeback.
In his defense, if someone were to say the same thing to me today, I would also be at a loss for words. For some reason, to my four-year-old self, the ability to shoot a cannon was the mark of adulthood. When you’re responsible enough to man a heavy piece of war machinery, you’re responsible enough to be a grownup.
My friends and I whine about becoming grownups a lot. There’s just so much stuff you have to do and none of it involves cannons.