“Just a minute!”
“I’m almost ready!”
To look back on my teenage years and the amount of time I spent prepping for life by attempting to enhance my looks with blue mascara, base (do people still wear this crap?), powder, eye shadow, lip gloss, crimping my hair and spraying cups of hairspray on my bangs (but only my bangs). Was this to go to a school dance? Or maybe to impress a certain cute boy?
It was to go to Safeway (which back then was called Tamimi and Fouad) and it was to meet to boy of my dreams. Or so I thought. But, the strange thing is, while gagging over the lamb shoulders and beef knuckles on display in the meat section, I never found him. Riding in our air-conditioned Trooper, with additional fans (remember, it was Saudi Arabia – a little hot at times) installed for the poor slobs who had to ride in the back (me and my sister), listening to aHa and Culture Club on my bright yellow Sony Walkman, I pondered his existence. Will he be leaving the gold souks after purchasing a lovely bangle for his dying mother who he has been caring for since 2nd grade, and due to that awesome care, has never had time to find a girlfriend? He’ll walk out of the store, kind of sad and forlorn because his mom is on her way out, but optimistic about his future. His sad eyes will glance up from the sidewalk (flicking his 80’s spiky yet slightly effeminate hair back from his face), making contact with mine (sparkling brightly, oh so blue with all my mascara, my shellacked bangs riding just above them to accentuate their maximum potential as the eyes that could be gazed into all the time if I was your girlfriend…).
And then, he will start to sing to me, with a voice like a mix between Tracey Chapman and George Michael (he could always use some more soulful girl power in his voice). We’ll run off into the sunset, or to the next concert, or maybe to prom, and live happily ever after, saving me from my brutal junior high existence.
I admit it. I spent a lot of time day-dreaming. Here’s some comfort to you moms out there who have teen daughters that spend hours in front of the mirror. I now brush my teeth and put in my contacts. That is my entire beauty regimen. I don’t even look in the mirror most of the time. I no longer have time to day-dream about cute men falling all over themselves to break out in song to me.
Well, now that Patrick Swayze is gone, that is.
I settled for a man who doesn’t notice when I dye my hair purple and sings to me in an Adam Sandler-voice, rhyming songs about poo and shoe and goo and butt and nut and gut. Somehow boobies fit in there, too. High brow entertainment. But that’s okay with me, because I don’t own any blue mascara anymore. I haven’t used hairspray for anything other than as a fixative for pastel and charcoal art work since 1991. It’s a miracle if I even brush my hair. My teen self would be horrified that it takes me 3.5 minutes to get ready in the morning, and I wear my pajamas all day (it’s more efficient). I may not have married the Justin Bieber of my youth – you can see from my picture at the top of the page, he doesn’t even have hair. But, I’m at a point in my life where I actually like the rhyming poo songs more than the love-sick teen songs. I like Adam Sandler more than George Michael. These days, laughter is better than day-dreaming.
Besides, the Biebers always turn out to be gay.