A long time ago
Back in my fourth life, I knew a girl named Susan. Susan was from Texas and was absolutely larger than life. First, she was gorgeous. Texas gorgeous, to be sure, but drop-dead, breath-catch-in-your-throat gorgeous, none-the-less. She was blonde, of course, but her blonde hair wasn't the big blonde of Texas myth. Her hair was, well, it was a little tall, but also really short on the sides and in the back. It was as though that Flock of Seagulls dude suddenly started going to a salon in Austin. For 1989, it was just retro enough to be ungodly chic. The hair, in addition to being tall, was also well and properly highlighted and sprayed, such that it never moved. It could have been a wig, for all its unmoving perfection.
Her clothes were also way fashionable, and designed to show off her killer body. I would guess that Susan was about 5'7", maybe weighed 125-130. She had a slim. strong athlete's body--and great legs which poked out from under her almost-too-short-to-be-business-like skirts. Her makeup was striking--nothing natural about it, although it wasn't so garish as to be completely *unnatural*. Her palette was just not found *in* nature--she was all blue mascara and purple eyeshadow. And then, there was the lipstick--that famous Susan shade that I have never seen anyone else wear successfully. That brght frosty hot pink. Not so dark as fuchia nor so light as baby. Susan's lips were Pink Lady satin.
I was 23 the year that I worked with Susan. I was on my second job of my fourth life-I would have one more before I left DC to embark on the great adventure--grad school--that would be my fifth life. But I was a year away from that when I worked with Susan. I was 23, she was--I think--26. I was just out of school and struggling in a job that I was both under- and over-qualified for, at the same time. I had a boyfriend that I didn't like very much, I was wicked homesick and I was barely making ends meet. Susan wasn't much older than me, but she was successful and wise and beautiful. I was never very comfortable around her, although that was more my own insecurities than anything she did. I idolized her--and idealized her.
Surprisingly, as it turns out, this isn't a journal entry about pretty, perfect Susan, but about me and how I feel about getting older. For some reason the other day, I thought of Susan--for the first time in years. I thought, I wonder what Susan is doing now? I wonder...and then it hit me.
Susan Streeter is 40. Jesus Christ. That makes me...
Well, that makes me 37. I knew that. I know that I am 37. I live it, every day. I look at my 37-year-old life square on. But Susan--man! How did *she* get to be 40?
I write a lot about age and aging. And it's such a cliche. "I can't believe that we're so OLD!", I whine to my friends. They whine back, similar sentiments. We talk about the rapid passage of time like we're the first generation to have seen our days whiz past, unstoppable, amorphous freight trains shooting toward an inevitable end. I get that this has happened to everyone.
Well, everyone that didn't die before they realized that they were mortal.
I realized that I was mortal at 13. I was at a carnival and my mom paid for someone to do a charcoal sketch of me. I was wearing a red, white, and blue top and my hair was long. I was wearing glasses. I see this picture all the time, hanging at my parents house. I don't really remember sitting for it, but I do remember the bottom dropping out of my world when they handed it to me and I realized that the picture would likely survive me. That someday, after I was dead, someone would find that crappy charcoal picture in a box somewhere and I wouldn't be there to explain about the carnival and the red, white and blue shirt.
And suddenly this is in a really morbid place, which wasn't my intent at all.
I'm going to go take a paxil and go to bed. :)
Her clothes were also way fashionable, and designed to show off her killer body. I would guess that Susan was about 5'7", maybe weighed 125-130. She had a slim. strong athlete's body--and great legs which poked out from under her almost-too-short-to-be-business-like skirts. Her makeup was striking--nothing natural about it, although it wasn't so garish as to be completely *unnatural*. Her palette was just not found *in* nature--she was all blue mascara and purple eyeshadow. And then, there was the lipstick--that famous Susan shade that I have never seen anyone else wear successfully. That brght frosty hot pink. Not so dark as fuchia nor so light as baby. Susan's lips were Pink Lady satin.
I was 23 the year that I worked with Susan. I was on my second job of my fourth life-I would have one more before I left DC to embark on the great adventure--grad school--that would be my fifth life. But I was a year away from that when I worked with Susan. I was 23, she was--I think--26. I was just out of school and struggling in a job that I was both under- and over-qualified for, at the same time. I had a boyfriend that I didn't like very much, I was wicked homesick and I was barely making ends meet. Susan wasn't much older than me, but she was successful and wise and beautiful. I was never very comfortable around her, although that was more my own insecurities than anything she did. I idolized her--and idealized her.
Surprisingly, as it turns out, this isn't a journal entry about pretty, perfect Susan, but about me and how I feel about getting older. For some reason the other day, I thought of Susan--for the first time in years. I thought, I wonder what Susan is doing now? I wonder...and then it hit me.
Susan Streeter is 40. Jesus Christ. That makes me...
Well, that makes me 37. I knew that. I know that I am 37. I live it, every day. I look at my 37-year-old life square on. But Susan--man! How did *she* get to be 40?
I write a lot about age and aging. And it's such a cliche. "I can't believe that we're so OLD!", I whine to my friends. They whine back, similar sentiments. We talk about the rapid passage of time like we're the first generation to have seen our days whiz past, unstoppable, amorphous freight trains shooting toward an inevitable end. I get that this has happened to everyone.
Well, everyone that didn't die before they realized that they were mortal.
I realized that I was mortal at 13. I was at a carnival and my mom paid for someone to do a charcoal sketch of me. I was wearing a red, white, and blue top and my hair was long. I was wearing glasses. I see this picture all the time, hanging at my parents house. I don't really remember sitting for it, but I do remember the bottom dropping out of my world when they handed it to me and I realized that the picture would likely survive me. That someday, after I was dead, someone would find that crappy charcoal picture in a box somewhere and I wouldn't be there to explain about the carnival and the red, white and blue shirt.
And suddenly this is in a really morbid place, which wasn't my intent at all.
I'm going to go take a paxil and go to bed. :)