(I wrote the following on a rainy Saturday in November of 2003, sitting cross-legged on the couch in my tiny New York apartment. I don't know what, if anything, compelled me to write it, but I remember the words pouring out of my head practically faster than I could type. A year before I became a blogger, it was the first time I wrote out my thoughts as if they might be seen, as if I might do something "official" with this. Now, it is apropos of absolutely nothing, other than the fact that it starts off with a mention of bachelorette parties, and therefore has been on my mind since last weekend. Also, I have nothing else to write about.)
I’ve always said that when I get married I don’t want a traditional bachelorette party, at which a group of close girlfriends, heavily intoxicated and armed with tacky accessories from Condom World, promote the fun of sex toys and strippers for my benefit. It’s hard to believe that in this day and age, when couples are marrying later in life, after years of having sex and in many cases, cohabitation, this still appears to be the preferred party formula. Maybe I run with a fast crowd, but vibrators had lost their stigma long before the popularity of Sex & the City, and my first male stripper experience in a Montreal “women’s club” at age sixteen was more than enough for one lifetime.
No, my idea of going out of singlehood in style is a huge party in my honor, at which every guy I’ve ever dated, liked, or even just ogled at the gym was in attendance to say goodbye. I realize this would never happen, of course, especially as by now most of my guests are married to women who would never let them attend, but I imagine it as a cloudy television dream sequence in which, oddly, they all have 1950’s haircuts and say things like, “Isn’t she swell?” And because I am a party girl at heart, I would make sure they all got sufficiently drunk and loose-lipped, and find ways to sneak one naughty smooch with each of them.
It’s not a matter of gloating, or some display of comeuppance that I seek. It’s just the feeling of being “worshiped” – a word I use loosely, but fondly - one last time before I commit myself to the ultimate act of adulthood, monogamy. [I have to note here that I think this is so weird now. If I were getting married, I would feel worshiped by my fiancee, right? Clearly my then-27 year old brain couldn't fathom that.]
If I ever went through therapy, the psychiatrist would probably tell me this desire for adoration stems from the lack of a steady male figure in my life. After all, my parents got divorced when I was five, and while I saw my father at least once a week, I did not develop a real relationship with him until I was older. I’d listen to the doctor long enough for him to write a prescription for something I would use later for other purposes, but I know the reason for my fantasy doesn’t stem from lack of a male figure. On the contrary; it’s the overwhelming desire to try and live up to the female figures of influence that I’ve bought into since birth.
Growing up, I was the only child of a Yuppie. My mother was ambitious, a go-getter, the single mom who ran a successful advertising business in Boston. In what was probably a subconscious attempt to spite her, I was the antithesis of motivated: I came home from school every day and locked myself in the TV room to watch hour after hour of bad television.
Some of my friends had after-school babysitters. I had a live-in housekeeper. The housekeeper’s role was duplicitous; naturally, she would cook and keep the house clean, but she was also responsible for keeping me safe and out of trouble. From the time I was five until I was twelve, we had an assortment of housekeepers, each staying about a year or two, until she could get her Green Card, or in one case, a better job working at the Friendly’s restaurant down the street. Hailing usually from Jamaica or Barbados, the housekeepers had an odd assortment of names, and over the years the guest room would be renamed to reflect its current occupant: “Heckle’s room” turned into “Olive’s room” which turned into “Raymond’s room”, and ultimately stayed “Raymond’s room” in our minds long after she left and it went back to being a guest room.
As if their names were indicative of their personalities, I thought the housekeepers themselves were weird. They used Vaseline in their hair, dutifully read the Bible, called me “hey Man” despite the fact I was a little girl, and made soup with the parts of the chicken that are meant, in first-world countries, to be thrown out with the trash. To show my disdain, I holed myself up in the TV room from the time I came home from school until the time I went to bed.
My reality, then, was heavily filtered through our RCA television set. Before I was old enough to even understand the premise of Three’s Company, I was captivated by Chrissy’s allure, and as such practiced her laugh/snort, copied her hairstyles, and memorized her bad jokes. I hated that I had brown hair like the practical, second fiddle Janet. A huge fan of The Brady Bunch, I aspired to be Marcia (beautiful) or Cindy (cute), but never Jan, the freckled, insecure misfit. In second grade, when the other girls had Strawberry Shortcake or The Care Bears on their lunch boxes, I had Daisy Duke, Bo and Luke. At an early age, it was clear to me that the most desirable qualities a girl could have were bouncy hair, quick wit, and often, half a brain.
I practiced adopting those qualities alone in my room in front of a mirror, on the playground with friends, and in a one-man stage show using my Star Studio for anyone in the living room who would watch. I never cared much for Barbie or dolls - they were inanimate objects. I craved action in the form of soap operas, talk shows, and bad 1970's comedies.
Of course, by the time the social forces of middle school propelled me into the reality that everyone else shared, it was too late. I had spent my youth soaking up the messages in angst-ridden John Hughes films, aspiring to be a popular high school cheerleader, believing that relationships with my seventh grade classmates would be just like the ones seen on General Hospital. I had no clue.
In a sense, television helped me grow up and understand things before many of my friends. I was watching older people do mature things, and retained those images. On the other hand, because I spent so much time alone with my characters and imagination, I didn’t learn until much later how real humans behaved.
I've long since learned that having half a brain usually only works on TV, and I've even embraced my inner Janet. I do get discouraged, however, when I see how often The Bachelor goes for the dimwit.
Labels: pop culture
