I feel like I should know better.
I had a big, round, divisible by 5 birthday this week - it didn’t end in a zero so I’m not spiraling too hard - but I am spiraling a little. At this point I am definitively not ~just a kid~. Lamenting how weird my birthday made me feel to my mom, I could see her eyeballs winding up for a massive stroll around their sockets— “I know I’m not old,” I stressed, “I just feel like I’m not young enough to be dumb anymore.” I’m not talking about major fuck-ups, but the delightful little oopsies that make youth youth.
In my early 20s I went to every club. I went home at dawn every weekend. I moved to New York to do the thing and Jesus Christ, I really did the thing.
And I like to tell myself that if I showed up at a secret party in Bushwick tomorrow I’d blend right in! No waiting in line for me! (Are there even lines and bouncers anymore? Are the parties still in Bushwick?) But I know I’m no longer a candidate. No longer eligible for a rave—not that my body could even handle it, I just liked knowing I had the option.
I’m too old to make a bad decision and pass off my poor judgement as a side effect of youth. I feel weird wanting and getting more tattoos, like I’ve missed the boat on wearing glitter eyeliner, lost my shot at TikTok.
Here I am making bad and good choices simultaneously. Really, it’s a look from Halston’s runway in 1975 with a model wearing Elsa Peretti’s gold mesh bra + diamonds by the yard.
I want to say I’m embracing this new phase in my life. Double mom-hood, car ownership, flat shoes. The truth is I’m finding myself butting my head against the firmly shut door of my idiotic youth harder than I expected. Missing out on a brand of fun I am so far from I literally can’t even imagine it kills me. I had so much fun back then.
But even when I was at my most clueless I felt like I was a slab of raw meat being dragged through a lion’s den every night when I went out. It was my fault if something bad happened. I shouldn’t have put myself in that position. I’m the bad one.
I can’t stop thinking about Sarah Everard and how many nights that could have been me. Even though now I know it’s my responsibility to teach my son not to rape, not teach my daughter how to not get raped, I know I’ll have to teach them both. “Text me when you get home.”
In a lot of ways I know better.
It’s not smart to mix drinks or take one from a stranger. It’s not warm enough to go out without a coat, even though wearing one will spoil your outfit. You will hurt people’s feelings if you treat them badly. You will ruin relationships, people will walk away.
But in so many other ways knowing better is excellent. I know myself better. I know better than to buy six pairs of faux-leather trousers, and instead get one real pair I love. I know better than to put up with assholes, to wait for something that’s never coming, to sacrifice my sanity for the sake of politeness. To call instead of sending a sixteen paragraph-long text on the hows and whys my feelings got hurt. I know to invest in a good couch and cheap stemware. Good cashmere and cheap t-shirts.
I know better than to pay too close attention to expiration dates or have too high expectations about what I can do with leftovers. I have opinions, real jewelry, I’ve made hard decisions and didn’t have regrets.
I know what looks good, feels good, is good.
Conversely, as a parent (“conversely, as a parent” is the least sexy thing I’ve ever read) I don’t think I’ll ever feel like I know better. I’m flying by the seat of my pants so hard the bottoms have all worn through. I wrote about this a few weeks ago, but I’m waiting for the day when I feel like I know what I’m doing with my kids, and as soon as it comes, they’ve changed. Having children is like playing the longest game of catch up with yourself. I can’t ever get ahead of the situation, I’m just swatting blindly at branches fumbling through the weeds.
I talk to my son a lot about making good choices, one day I’m sure he’ll start calling me out on my bad ones. I have a medium-big tattoo that says “Neat” above my right elbow to keep me humble, just in case he doesn’t.
The push/pull of the whole thing is strong. I mourn my clueless youth, but marinate in the smugness my bit of life experience affords me. I’m also old enough to realize how few things are permanent, how many trap doors there are in life—to take a chill pill, get a good night’s sleep, take another look in the morning.
Stop worrying about what you are and how it looks, just stay still for a minute.
I keep thinking, this is the perfect time to reference Britney’s Not A Girl Not Yet A Woman, but omg, I am definitely not a girl, and definitely a woman by now. I imagine nobody ever stops feeling this way - like at what point does everything click and you feel like you’ve figured it out. I guess I’m a little under halfway there? I’m old enough to know what I know, and also know what I don’t know. I guess?
I don’t know.
Love, your friend,
Laurel