18th Birthday
18 years post 18th birthday, I'd like to congratulate an Italiano brother on successfully copping the most feels in a single, non-consensual, barely-legal evening.
Yes, we're talking party time!
Setting the scene, going back, back, back...
I've turned 18. The day of or the day before. Doesn't matter. I've aged and nothing has happened beyond going to school, coming home, getting dressed, putting on makeup and waiting for dad to pull the car out front for us to head out to dinner. This isn't quite the raucous 'fun' birthday that one might think of, for 'Just turned 18, woo!' (Do people have those anymore? Did they ever?)
No, no, this is a Lauren birthday: rainy, cold, ice creeping in. November snow sometimes, always directly before Thanksgiving, squarely family oriented. Often celebrated on a Tuesday or some equally hideous weeknight, within the safe confines of a blearily lighted home. Dark at 5pm. A school night. A wet sock of an evening.
I can see myself. Similar to nowadays of course, but enhanced with the awkward embrace of braces and acne; "Dressed up" but in that lame way of not knowing how the hell to pair anything with anything. I have on a white cable knit sweater, too-tight, shiny black pants with a rhinestone cherry on one ass cheek, giant, cheap, plastic (yep) combat boots and slightly ridiculous 70's-looking chandelier earrings. Hair piled up on my head in a bun, pimpled skin, coal black eye make up drawn into little cat eyes. I recall feeling 13 in comparison to the blossoming girls in my year. These disjointed features were a better fit in the middle school years. They plague my ladylike aspirations. I know it now, and I've known it for awhile: I'm not a beautiful girl and I never will be, really. It's not all bad of course. Not ugly, not deformed...but in this world of coming of age tales, I'm squarely non-commital. My face doesn't belong to me. Or sit well with me. Yet.
(Looking back, of course I can see the power in youth - and naivety.)
Back in the moment, I'm weirdly wistful. My mousy nose and large mascaraed eyes seem childlike Tammy Faye, and the silver braces that catch more light than my earrings add a few under-years on. I think, "I'm an official adult age, but no one knows it! They think I'm still a kid."
Aw shucks.
Mom and Dad had asked where I'd like to go to dinner with the family. "Somewhere fun." I don't know what fun is.
Neither do they, really.
Dad decides:
"We're going to Sabatino's! It's a classic."
Sabatino's is a north side Italian joint popular with older folk and their older friends. There's an old piano bar with a drunk circle of smoking good old boys, and my large breasted mother will make friends with at least 2 of them later on in the evening. They'll sing and speak garbled German to her while she harmlessly flirts, to my impatient, tired younger brother's chagrin.
(At this point, it's worth pointing out I've inherited the family mammary assets. At that age, I was a mere C cup. Had I known of my own second puberty that would hit as soon as entered my mid 20's, I would've cherished the moderate breasts I had. The triple D's are literally getting me down. But I digress...)
We are a family of boobs and they must be dealt with by the public.
Only I don't know this yet.
We make our way through Sabatino's to our table. Strolling violinist, dark wood, booths, red carpet everywhere. People still smoked indoors then and it's everywhere, except in our shiny mirrored No Smoking section. I see myself reflected, reflected, reflected amongst other tables' piles of pasta and garlic bread. The couples near me are happily in their mid 40's. Maybe older. Everyone's a couple or a family with grown children.
But I like this birthday so far. My sister and I make each other laugh. Kelly's the far superior daughter: the beauty, the runner, the Homecoming and Prom Queen double-winner; the beloved easy-goer who makes all things possible. We still share a room. We're best friends, though I'm relieved I'm graduating. Hard to watch and take so much of her high school ease and success after I struggled to get through 4 years. Poor me.
Kent is hilariously 12. A kid brother that's nice about my braces anxiety ("They look good!") yet squeezes my belly fat and says, "How's it goin', Pillsbury Dough Boy?"
Mom and Dad are a unified wall of a couple in love. This is a good thing. For them.
Dad says I look beautiful and I see Mouse in the Mirror. A candle is shining in my eyes and for one moment I think...yes, maybe!
Our waiter comes by and takes our orders.
Slowly, course by course, it begins.
A dish is placed directly in front of me and my breast is grazed. Casually.
I think...oh. That just happened.
Hmm, no matter.
A soup and salad make their way in front of me.
Brush, brush.
Always the same breast.
I take a look downward, to see if I have them resting directly in the 'place dish here' zone.
No. A good 3 inches away from the table in fact! I'm starting to get impressed. As a test I move and lean back, try different angles around the table. Let's see you get them NOW, you bastard.
He prevails.
Main course.
Brush.
Side dish.
Graze.
Dessert, coffee.
Brush, graze.
To go box.
Brush.
Goddamnit dude, share your talents with the world!
I look across at my family and they have no idea what's going on.
What do I tell mom and dad?
"Mommy, Daddy, the waiter man keeps plating things within nipple range and I don't know how he does it!"
Dinner ends, and I recall exchanging a smile with the waiter. Not too much older than I, perhaps in his mid to late 20's. I think, my one breast feels funny.
We smile like old friends, thanks for the nice evening and GREAT service!
My mom's flushing and tipsy as the old barman and piano player play on, with my brother getting funny irritated and just wanting to go HOME.
We do, we do.
I don't mention this to anyone, because it's more entertaining than anything else and until this very moment, I'm not sure it's warranted a documented storytelling.
But I can't seem to forget it, because it seems like the perfect encapsulation: not of a perfect birthday, but of my family, life, self, at age 18.
My braces shine against my 70's chandeliers. I've had boys suck on my breasts before and it's my favorite thing, so far.
I don't know anything else. I don't have a boyfriend I love, just this feeling of slightly glammed out loss.
Don't know how to end this.
Appropriate. Feeling very 18.
Yes, we're talking party time!
Setting the scene, going back, back, back...
I've turned 18. The day of or the day before. Doesn't matter. I've aged and nothing has happened beyond going to school, coming home, getting dressed, putting on makeup and waiting for dad to pull the car out front for us to head out to dinner. This isn't quite the raucous 'fun' birthday that one might think of, for 'Just turned 18, woo!' (Do people have those anymore? Did they ever?)
No, no, this is a Lauren birthday: rainy, cold, ice creeping in. November snow sometimes, always directly before Thanksgiving, squarely family oriented. Often celebrated on a Tuesday or some equally hideous weeknight, within the safe confines of a blearily lighted home. Dark at 5pm. A school night. A wet sock of an evening.
I can see myself. Similar to nowadays of course, but enhanced with the awkward embrace of braces and acne; "Dressed up" but in that lame way of not knowing how the hell to pair anything with anything. I have on a white cable knit sweater, too-tight, shiny black pants with a rhinestone cherry on one ass cheek, giant, cheap, plastic (yep) combat boots and slightly ridiculous 70's-looking chandelier earrings. Hair piled up on my head in a bun, pimpled skin, coal black eye make up drawn into little cat eyes. I recall feeling 13 in comparison to the blossoming girls in my year. These disjointed features were a better fit in the middle school years. They plague my ladylike aspirations. I know it now, and I've known it for awhile: I'm not a beautiful girl and I never will be, really. It's not all bad of course. Not ugly, not deformed...but in this world of coming of age tales, I'm squarely non-commital. My face doesn't belong to me. Or sit well with me. Yet.
(Looking back, of course I can see the power in youth - and naivety.)
Back in the moment, I'm weirdly wistful. My mousy nose and large mascaraed eyes seem childlike Tammy Faye, and the silver braces that catch more light than my earrings add a few under-years on. I think, "I'm an official adult age, but no one knows it! They think I'm still a kid."
Aw shucks.
Mom and Dad had asked where I'd like to go to dinner with the family. "Somewhere fun." I don't know what fun is.
Neither do they, really.
Dad decides:
"We're going to Sabatino's! It's a classic."
Sabatino's is a north side Italian joint popular with older folk and their older friends. There's an old piano bar with a drunk circle of smoking good old boys, and my large breasted mother will make friends with at least 2 of them later on in the evening. They'll sing and speak garbled German to her while she harmlessly flirts, to my impatient, tired younger brother's chagrin.
(At this point, it's worth pointing out I've inherited the family mammary assets. At that age, I was a mere C cup. Had I known of my own second puberty that would hit as soon as entered my mid 20's, I would've cherished the moderate breasts I had. The triple D's are literally getting me down. But I digress...)
We are a family of boobs and they must be dealt with by the public.
Only I don't know this yet.
We make our way through Sabatino's to our table. Strolling violinist, dark wood, booths, red carpet everywhere. People still smoked indoors then and it's everywhere, except in our shiny mirrored No Smoking section. I see myself reflected, reflected, reflected amongst other tables' piles of pasta and garlic bread. The couples near me are happily in their mid 40's. Maybe older. Everyone's a couple or a family with grown children.
But I like this birthday so far. My sister and I make each other laugh. Kelly's the far superior daughter: the beauty, the runner, the Homecoming and Prom Queen double-winner; the beloved easy-goer who makes all things possible. We still share a room. We're best friends, though I'm relieved I'm graduating. Hard to watch and take so much of her high school ease and success after I struggled to get through 4 years. Poor me.
Kent is hilariously 12. A kid brother that's nice about my braces anxiety ("They look good!") yet squeezes my belly fat and says, "How's it goin', Pillsbury Dough Boy?"
Mom and Dad are a unified wall of a couple in love. This is a good thing. For them.
Dad says I look beautiful and I see Mouse in the Mirror. A candle is shining in my eyes and for one moment I think...yes, maybe!
Our waiter comes by and takes our orders.
Slowly, course by course, it begins.
A dish is placed directly in front of me and my breast is grazed. Casually.
I think...oh. That just happened.
Hmm, no matter.
A soup and salad make their way in front of me.
Brush, brush.
Always the same breast.
I take a look downward, to see if I have them resting directly in the 'place dish here' zone.
No. A good 3 inches away from the table in fact! I'm starting to get impressed. As a test I move and lean back, try different angles around the table. Let's see you get them NOW, you bastard.
He prevails.
Main course.
Brush.
Side dish.
Graze.
Dessert, coffee.
Brush, graze.
To go box.
Brush.
Goddamnit dude, share your talents with the world!
I look across at my family and they have no idea what's going on.
What do I tell mom and dad?
"Mommy, Daddy, the waiter man keeps plating things within nipple range and I don't know how he does it!"
Dinner ends, and I recall exchanging a smile with the waiter. Not too much older than I, perhaps in his mid to late 20's. I think, my one breast feels funny.
We smile like old friends, thanks for the nice evening and GREAT service!
My mom's flushing and tipsy as the old barman and piano player play on, with my brother getting funny irritated and just wanting to go HOME.
We do, we do.
I don't mention this to anyone, because it's more entertaining than anything else and until this very moment, I'm not sure it's warranted a documented storytelling.
But I can't seem to forget it, because it seems like the perfect encapsulation: not of a perfect birthday, but of my family, life, self, at age 18.
My braces shine against my 70's chandeliers. I've had boys suck on my breasts before and it's my favorite thing, so far.
I don't know anything else. I don't have a boyfriend I love, just this feeling of slightly glammed out loss.
Don't know how to end this.
Appropriate. Feeling very 18.
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