Unpublished

Oh, you’re finally hitting your teenagehood!

My mother has said this to me about a million times.

And I hate it . . .

Mostly because it feels so true.

I am in the throes of passion, rebellion,

frustration at the world at large,

irritation with several specific people in the world at large.

And reliving all this—again—is no more fun

than it was the first time.

I suppose I should consider myself lucky—

Some people don’t seem to make it past the age of 2.

But I’d really like to be an adult someday.

Trust myself.  Be comfortable with the body that sometimes seems well past its 31 years and the emotions that are perennially stuck at 14.

I’d like to be responsible.  No waffling.  No squirming.

I live up the road from FDR’s house, and almost every day for several weeks now I’ve had to drive by one of Eleanor’s quotes they’ve got posted out front: “Determine one’s position, state it bravely, and then act boldly.”  

To which my response is usually: “Grrrrrrrrr.” 

But that just reminds me of my cat Golda growling as she looks out the window, and my mother going outside to chase away the cat that’s causing Golda’s anxiety.  My mother can’t find the cat, so she comes back inside only to realize that, in the dim light, Golda is, in fact, growling at her own reflection.