Wild Child: NOUN: reckless person: a reckless, impulsive, and undisciplined person, usually a young adult ( informal )
I'm a late bloomer. I've always been a late bloomer.
I didn't have a boyfriend until I was fourteen, I had my heart broken at sixteen, I got kissed at seventeen (I broke up with him that same year), I'm still a virgin, I don't smoke, the only drugs I do are prescribed to me, and I don't drink that much- only when I deem alcohol necessary. I don't drive, and I'm a coffee addict; I'm street smart, naive, and too ignorant for my own damn good.
I've never been wild; I never went out on school nights and partied until dawn, I never snuck out of the house and went joy riding with friends, I've never stolen anything. I grew up surrounded by kids that vandalized and stole, snuck out and partied. I was never like that.
Instead, I put all my energy into the performing arts: dance, acting, singing, and even writing. I'm friends with an ex-classmate that does my headshots for the small fee of a cup of coffee and lunch out. I went out Wednesday night with a guy from my Literature class and walked along the river with him, and when we finally got to the park, I kissed him in between star gazing and laying on his chest in the wet grass.
I'm the normal girl in every way but one. I've never been reckless. Getting drunk last night on white zinfandel wine was the most reckless I've ever been. But lately, I've considered sneaking out of the house and getting drunk with a few friends at a dance club, and since Wednesday night, every time I look at a guy, I want to do a strip tease and French him.
Maybe it's just my hormones going haywire, or maybe I'm finally coming into my own, I don't know, but it scares me half to death. I've never been like this, nor have I ever wanted to. I'm not a wild child...
At least, I don't think I am.
But maybe I need to start being one.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Sunday, July 17, 2011
The Joys of Airport Security
It's been almost three months since I last updated. My last post was officially April 23rd. In that time, I've:
I'm terrified.
I've never been so terrified of anything in my entire life. The fact that this- New York, school, Broadway- could actually happen.....
But let me start at the beginning of this little soiriee into Los Angeles.
I got off work at about 4:30 yesterday, and my godparents dropped my mom and I off at the airport. We got there two hours early, checked our bags in, and then we got something to eat before sitting and relaxing. I, naturally, bought a cup of coffee, and then sat fiddling with my phone as we sat and caught our breath. Not long after, however, I began to feel sick to my stomach- whether from going for almost six hours without eating and then having lunch, or from the reality that at 7:20 I'd be on a plane to the city that would play a major part in deciding my future, or perhaps it was a combination of both- but whatever the reason, I slipped off to the bathroom and spent several minutes at the sink, splashing my face with water and taking several deep breaths.
When we finally decided to go up and go through checkout, did what any person going through checkout does- has our passes signed, and then put our things in the bins to be sent through the scanner. I went through the walk-through first, it went off, and when I went to remove what was possibly setting it off- my belt with the metal accents, my bangles, earrings and necklace- the security guard pulled me aside. Mom, by that time had managed to pass through without incident and was getting her things.
While I'm taking my jewelry off, the security guard asks me- out of the blue:
"What's your nationality?"
Now, to any nonstressed person, this would be a perfectly rational question to answer. But to me- who had just got off a stressful day at work, been going through free therapy with a friend, and has been pinching every penny to pay for this trip, on top of memorizing two monologues, sending FASFA papers to the school, scheduling the audition and passing my finals- this was the straw that broke the camel's back.
So imagine the look of surprise on my face at the gall of this security guard asking me what my nationality was.
My response?
"You have got to be kidding me."
"No. I want to know what your nationality is."
So I told him. My nationality and a few other things that were on my already frazzled mind.
"Look, I have had a really stressful day at work, my mom's back went out a week ago, and I've been saving as much of my paychecks as I can to pay for this trip. I have an audition on Monday at 12:30 in Los Angeles that decides whether or not I go back to this school in New York this coming fall. And you're asking me what my nationality is?"
"While I wish you the best of luck with the audition, I still need to know your nationality."
At that point, I was so frazzled, I gave in.
"Fine. Fine. Here's my nationality. And if you don't believe me, ask my mom. And my mom is the woman on the other side of the security scanner waiting for me. So here's my nationality: Scottish, Irish, English, Dutch, Swedish, German, Welsh, and Mexican. You hear me? MEXICAN. Not Iraqi, not Irani, not any other -ani, MEXICAN."
He just stared at me like I'd lost my mind. And at that point, I wanted to scream.
"Okay. That's nice. Try it again." Didn't even bat an eyelash.
So I went through the scanner, and- luckily- passed through without it going off. When I finally collected my things, I shot the guard a dirty look, and he glanced from my mom to me and back. Knowing him, he probably thought I'd kidnapped her or something, because anyone that knows me, and has seen my mom....
Well, let's just say, there's contrasting skin tones.
And when we finally got in line to board the plane, the security- once again, for some ungodly known reason- picked me. They pulled Mom and I aside and checked my carryon- again. And then- here's the irony of the situation-
The security guard who checked my bag put a cookie into my carryon, saying that I was a good girl and deserved a treat. I felt like a dog that had been told to roll over and once I'd done the trick, was given a belly rub and a dog buscuit.
If the situation wasn't already so stressful, it would have been almost funny.
Once we were seated on the plane- well, let me put it this way-
More than anything, what I'm terrified of, is not the actual flying itself, but the take off. Not the descent, not the flying, the take off. Something about something so big leaving the ground and being able to stay up scares me half to death. So I did what I normally do- hold onto the seat until my knuckles turned white, and started hyperventilating. The entire time we're moving down the runway, I'm freaking out. I don't know why it terrifies me, it just does.
Well, with everything that's gone on in the last few days, something has to go right.
Right?
- Finished and passed all my classes at the community college
- Finished and edited twenty-five chapters of my novel-in-progress
- Mentored six Young Chautauquans- four as their official group leader, and two as just a mentor
- Have now worked at the bookstore for almost two months
- Finished my physical therapy and can now start Pointe
- Scheduled an auditon for a school back east, and my audition comes up in a day's time.
I'm terrified.
I've never been so terrified of anything in my entire life. The fact that this- New York, school, Broadway- could actually happen.....
But let me start at the beginning of this little soiriee into Los Angeles.
I got off work at about 4:30 yesterday, and my godparents dropped my mom and I off at the airport. We got there two hours early, checked our bags in, and then we got something to eat before sitting and relaxing. I, naturally, bought a cup of coffee, and then sat fiddling with my phone as we sat and caught our breath. Not long after, however, I began to feel sick to my stomach- whether from going for almost six hours without eating and then having lunch, or from the reality that at 7:20 I'd be on a plane to the city that would play a major part in deciding my future, or perhaps it was a combination of both- but whatever the reason, I slipped off to the bathroom and spent several minutes at the sink, splashing my face with water and taking several deep breaths.
When we finally decided to go up and go through checkout, did what any person going through checkout does- has our passes signed, and then put our things in the bins to be sent through the scanner. I went through the walk-through first, it went off, and when I went to remove what was possibly setting it off- my belt with the metal accents, my bangles, earrings and necklace- the security guard pulled me aside. Mom, by that time had managed to pass through without incident and was getting her things.
While I'm taking my jewelry off, the security guard asks me- out of the blue:
"What's your nationality?"
Now, to any nonstressed person, this would be a perfectly rational question to answer. But to me- who had just got off a stressful day at work, been going through free therapy with a friend, and has been pinching every penny to pay for this trip, on top of memorizing two monologues, sending FASFA papers to the school, scheduling the audition and passing my finals- this was the straw that broke the camel's back.
So imagine the look of surprise on my face at the gall of this security guard asking me what my nationality was.
My response?
"You have got to be kidding me."
"No. I want to know what your nationality is."
So I told him. My nationality and a few other things that were on my already frazzled mind.
"Look, I have had a really stressful day at work, my mom's back went out a week ago, and I've been saving as much of my paychecks as I can to pay for this trip. I have an audition on Monday at 12:30 in Los Angeles that decides whether or not I go back to this school in New York this coming fall. And you're asking me what my nationality is?"
"While I wish you the best of luck with the audition, I still need to know your nationality."
At that point, I was so frazzled, I gave in.
"Fine. Fine. Here's my nationality. And if you don't believe me, ask my mom. And my mom is the woman on the other side of the security scanner waiting for me. So here's my nationality: Scottish, Irish, English, Dutch, Swedish, German, Welsh, and Mexican. You hear me? MEXICAN. Not Iraqi, not Irani, not any other -ani, MEXICAN."
He just stared at me like I'd lost my mind. And at that point, I wanted to scream.
"Okay. That's nice. Try it again." Didn't even bat an eyelash.
So I went through the scanner, and- luckily- passed through without it going off. When I finally collected my things, I shot the guard a dirty look, and he glanced from my mom to me and back. Knowing him, he probably thought I'd kidnapped her or something, because anyone that knows me, and has seen my mom....
Well, let's just say, there's contrasting skin tones.
And when we finally got in line to board the plane, the security- once again, for some ungodly known reason- picked me. They pulled Mom and I aside and checked my carryon- again. And then- here's the irony of the situation-
The security guard who checked my bag put a cookie into my carryon, saying that I was a good girl and deserved a treat. I felt like a dog that had been told to roll over and once I'd done the trick, was given a belly rub and a dog buscuit.
If the situation wasn't already so stressful, it would have been almost funny.
Once we were seated on the plane- well, let me put it this way-
More than anything, what I'm terrified of, is not the actual flying itself, but the take off. Not the descent, not the flying, the take off. Something about something so big leaving the ground and being able to stay up scares me half to death. So I did what I normally do- hold onto the seat until my knuckles turned white, and started hyperventilating. The entire time we're moving down the runway, I'm freaking out. I don't know why it terrifies me, it just does.
Well, with everything that's gone on in the last few days, something has to go right.
Right?
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