A ridiculous story about being a teenager

**This post started life as an email so if it seems a bit weird and out context for a blog post… sorry.

A ridiculous recount of being a teenager follows; if you’re game, read on. If you’re bored already… thanks for stopping by.

I remember it like it was yesterday. It was 1979. I lived in Apartment 47 on the 12th floor of the Focus building on the Gold Coast with Dad.  I was utterly sophisticated in an ensemble of frizzy, recently permed poodle hair glistening with baby oil (to try to calm the poodle down), yellow crocheted bikinis with spray-painted palm trees — one on each boob (not that I had much), a sprinkling of pimples and a devil may care attitude. 

I was livin’ the dream. It was the end of the 70s.

The phone rang, I picked it up and a suave and sophisticated 14 year old called Dean (I think) was on the line.  I don’t remember anything about the conversation except the bit when he called me a “Foxy Lady”. God, I thought I’d died and gone to teenage Heaven.  

The torrid relationship, the playing of elicit table tennis in the underground carpark of the building, sweaty fumblings in the sauna and of course THAT DAY at the swimming carnival which was only 67% as awkward as my worst nightmare. It was a relatively decent relationship — all 17 days of it.

That ever happen to you? No? Just me?

Teenage kissing debacles are such awkward delights but they probably form some of my worst teenage nightmare including the day I thought that death by saliva could actually be true. It’s no wonder there was the experimentation with alcohol to dull the memory of all those sets of braces and the practicing with and without tongue with people who’s voices weren’t fully broken yet.  Thank God it’s over — I haven’t thought about that weird guy whose name escapes me with the tornado tongue in years!

What a way to live! It probably wasn’t all bad, some of it was even fun.  It’s no wonder teenage years are a recipe for what can only be described as some of life’s best and worst memories all rolled into one. 

So fast forward three decades and I’m an adult. I’ve mastered all sorts of things including kissing. I can even nail sticky conversations like this one where I ask you all to do me a favour.

I find myself at a communications crossroads. I can beg, plead or tell you ridiculous stories about being a teenager or I could simply say:

I know that you’re super busy people and that you’re faced with an onslaught of requests, demands, inquiries, complaints and emails pleading for your time. And because you sometimes sign up to get some free stuff there are even more people in your inbox. There are people you don’t know, people you do know, people you wish you didn’t know, and people you’d like to know.

And sometimes, you’re going to want to scream. Because, here’s the thing: communication is exhausting. Writing this email and then all that time for you read this email can get exhausting.

And the worst part? Sometimes, you’re going to feel just like you’re still in Year 8 and someone’s going to say that their neighbour’s friend’s brother has a crush on you. And you’re going to blush and say “really? cos I don’t even know him” 

Except you’re not in Year 8. You’re here, with me, on your screen. 

Love & freedom to you… Sharon



Get the only nonsense and ramblings of a part-time feminist that anyone actually understands. (Swearing is complimentary!)

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