A Better Place
And yet I find myself watching Laguna Beach last Saturday. Mere glimpses throughout this season sufficed to key me into the details of their questionably sordid liasons. Apparently the much-covetted boytoy of one blond bombshell kissed another in front of her, during a family function, leaving all involved in a state of confusion, anger, expressed so vividly by the blunted affect that afflicts these teenage youths, in their noble attempt to appear blazé and over it.
At one point in my existence I would have envied that their woes consisted of deciding which Fendi purse to purchase and which football hunk to fornicate with. And perhaps on that particular Saturday I had been none the wiser. On the same day I had ventured into the palatial Westchester Mall with my roomate, where at once the same blond prototypes surrounded us in clusters, replete with their phones, skin tight jeans, and theatrical makeup. I had wanted to be one of them, hating them only out of envy, because I had missed the youth as they experienced it -- blissful, superfluous, ostentatious.
But something was different that Saturday, whereupon I believed I finally experienced that much-needed epiphany -- that feeling of distance between me and them, and how such comparison is, in fact, non-sensical. For the first time, I fully appreciated my reality, and the beautiful surprises therein, that exist, and promise to reemerge, independent of whatever deprivation I have previously suffered. Then is when I realize that I am the one who truly can be blazé and over it -- because I am in a better place, where the ephermerality of glamour and fantasy no longer apply.
It is good to finally move on.
At one point in my existence I would have envied that their woes consisted of deciding which Fendi purse to purchase and which football hunk to fornicate with. And perhaps on that particular Saturday I had been none the wiser. On the same day I had ventured into the palatial Westchester Mall with my roomate, where at once the same blond prototypes surrounded us in clusters, replete with their phones, skin tight jeans, and theatrical makeup. I had wanted to be one of them, hating them only out of envy, because I had missed the youth as they experienced it -- blissful, superfluous, ostentatious.
But something was different that Saturday, whereupon I believed I finally experienced that much-needed epiphany -- that feeling of distance between me and them, and how such comparison is, in fact, non-sensical. For the first time, I fully appreciated my reality, and the beautiful surprises therein, that exist, and promise to reemerge, independent of whatever deprivation I have previously suffered. Then is when I realize that I am the one who truly can be blazé and over it -- because I am in a better place, where the ephermerality of glamour and fantasy no longer apply.
It is good to finally move on.
posted by Maureen @ 7:14 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home