The “curse” as many of us like to call it is probably an excused more often responsible for weight-gain, bitchiness, and the random well of tears that come without warning. We don’t really understand why we were the chosen ones to bear this. And although science has come up with a pretty reasonable explanation, I still only remember what an 8th grade health teacher told us.

So here, as I remember, is the how the cycle of the cursed and lonely egg begins:

Every month, a beautiful egg is released from her sisters to wander in search of her mate, the sperm. The beautiful egg waits patiently preparing herself for her encounter with this mysterious sperm. She prepares herself, much like someone going on a date. But, she only has a few weeks to wait. So the egg, faithfully waits for her sperm to arive probably dreaming of what their union will become. But most days, the egg, after waiting for weeks, grows old and tired. The sperm did not come to meet her. She is exhausted and distraught. And in her distress, she cracks and bleeds.

Poor suicidal, violent, and needy egg. And the sisters, not ready to give up all hope, prepares another sister to continue the cycle, one suicidal egg at a time.

The end.

So there you go, the public school’s version of how the dissatisfied egg destroys herself and bleeds to her demise. So today, I feel the need to tell my eggs that waiting for that sperm is sometimes stupid.

I hope that teacher isn’t out there scarring the minds of young women everywhere as this story gets passed down from one grade to the next.

In most cases, I find all kids adorable. Until of course, you go on kid overload that is of the worst-kind. The Parentally Induced kind.

So this tale, is a first hand account of my grueling month and a half encounter with the lady who obsessed so much about her baby boy, that the mere sight of this said lady makes me want to consider flipping patties at a greasy burger joint.

I started a part-time job at UPS a few weeks ago. It is decent in terms of pay and hours. I also only work with 2 other girls, the manager and the one full-time employee, so drama wise, I hardly think that the 3 of us can generate enough tension.

It’s not hard to tell who is numero uno in my managers life judging from her computer’s desktop photo, the mouse pad, and the picture collages upon collages situated on our walls mixed with corporate posters demanding appearance and customer service.

My manager has a 7 month-old baby boy . And he is, for the most part, cute.

The problem is that my boss insists on showing me every picture and video she has of her baby boy, from her digital camera, from her personal computer, from her phone’s camera, and on one occassion, even the one’s on her husband’s phone. Not to mention the various aunts and uncles who have a Facebook account and photos of the weetle baby.

I guess that was acceptable perhaps the first week I worked there. As an icebreaker you know, since we have nothing in common really, except the fact that we can both dote on her  baby.

And then it happened every day I worked there. It was like Groundhog day. She would smile this big elated smile of hers, whip any which one of her picture taking gadgets and squeal in baby talk: “Huv I showed you pictures of my wittle waby cutsie pootsie pie?”

I’m sure she takes a photo of him daily because she has an endless supply of photos. Baby boy trying to eat peas for dinner last night, baby boy staring at the tv, baby boy blinking, baby boy drooling, baby boy yawning, baby boy drooling for the 15th time…

And when she runs out of new photos to show me, she makes sure she updates me on all the previous days, weeks, and months before I even knew this baby existed. I’ve even seen sonograms. And the pictures of the stomach pre and post baby through stretch marks and her theory that this such and such stretch mark down here may have been darker than others because cute little baby kicked there in that spot routinely.

Right now, I wouldn’t be surprised if she whipped up photos from the night of baby boy’s conception. It would seem eerily appropriate after all the other things he’s shown me.

But I do need to give her some credit. Sometimes it’s not just pictures of baby boy sitting or curled up in a sofa. Sometimes just out of boredom she’ll tell me about the type of clothes she put on her baby when she dropped him off at the daycare that morning. I gotta give it to her. It’s not enough to apparently just describe the onesies he’s wearing with the little Elmo or the little Winnie-the-Pooh footsies… Noooooo, she actually has on occassion, pulled the website of whatever brand he’s wearing and she then proceeds to show me every darned outfit this baby has worn, currently wearing, and even some she’s window-shopping for.

And on days when she’s really on her game, she has me watching her baby boy on live camera feed in the baby room provided by the daycare.

The video quality is poor, and I can’t tell which baby is which, but apparently the little blue booty dangling on the bottom right of the screen is in fact her baby boy!

At times like these, I feel a mixture of annoyance, disgusts and even pity my manager. Has she lost all identity of herself that all she can think and talk about is her baby boy? Has she lost all her social skills that all conversations, even with perfect strangers completely revolves around her kid? Or do all moms just have this adoration for their children that those of us without kids just don’t understand?

As much as I’d love to tell my boss to go find someone else to creep out, I stand there and watch her come towards me with dread, a wave of nausea hitting me for the long minutes ahead, my foot instinctively trying to twitch itself out to the nearest exit.

And when she asks for that affirmation in baby talk, ” Isn’t he just the cutest wittle thing?”

I grin and bear it, saying “He sure is.”

We ( me, plus the dudes) found an eager investor, so off we were to booking land and I’m really excited about getting this gig already glowing from the potential of it all.

But not so fast. I’m about to learn that the real world is a “dog eat dog” world.

I already knew that of course, but I always said that I couldn’t live a life where I had to assume everyone was going to stab me behind my back.

One of My guys (as in the production company that gave me a gig) apparently gave more information than he should have to one of the bands we booked, then poof! Before you know it, this stupid band (who wasn’t even our headliner by the way) went behind our backs and called OUR investor and tried (or is trying) to not only tried  to be a complete weasel BUT he’s trying to take over our gig. He’s attempting the same date and everything. That bastard is taking over! (excuse the language)

Needless to say, I’m hot and I’d like to rip someone’s head off. But hopefully, tomorrow we take back our deal and these suckers can well, suck it.

Wish us luck.

She was passing through town and lived 3 hours away, and my boyfriend, being the nice guy that he was, agreed to fix this lady’s truck and horse trailer. Too bad he didn’t know that her vehicle wasn’t an easy fix.

So he recruited his brother to work late and fix the truck. My boyfriend eventually helped in with the action a few hours later and got his hands dirty because it was getting late.

I went home to my boyfriend’s house because my stomach was eating itself and I had assumed that they would be done no later than 10 p.m.

11:30 p.m. came and my boyfriend called me to tell me that the town had a blackout. It was pitch black in the shop but he was determined to finish the job no matter what. He decided to take a few cars/trucks and use their headlights. Finally, an hour later a very exhausted boyfriend came home to finally join me for a supper.

Then, the lady called. She busted a tire. And she was on  the ditch close to the sketchier part of town.

My boyfriend I guess, could have said no, but like he said: “That lady could easily be you… so I have to get her”.

She had no spare tire on her and being so late, my boyfriend convinced the lady to stay in a motel in town. The few hotels in town were full, some were without power, and, to make matters worst, one was unattended because the staff left due to an emergency.

So my boyfriend took her home.

And she had been playing with cows all day and so she smelt funny.

And then her phone died. She had to tell this story to her husband three hours away from my boyfriend’s cellphone.

Talk about awkward. It’s not every day you get to tell your spouse that you can’t come home because a.) you broke down on the side of the road, b.) they couldn’t fix it faster because the entire town blacked-out, c.) and then it was fixed but then I popped a tire, oh and I don’t have a spare and all the tire stores are closed, d.) None of the hotels can take me so I have to go sleep in this strange man’s house, and e.) Oh by the way, you can’t contact me because my phone just died.

It’s a good thing this strange man happened to be my boy-friend and he’s not a creep psycho-killer (this story would have been a classic horror plot). And the lady’s husband was a cop. I could just imagine what was going through his head.

The three of us laughed so hard at her luck and how much worse it could get. I’m also glad because I thought she was this hick farmer (because of the cows) but actually, I shouldn’t have been so quick to judged because she was a college professor (that explained why she read an entire business book while she waited for her truck)

And best of all, she came back 2 days later with the freshest, most tender cuts of steak as a way of thanks.

In a way of self-depreciation, I found myself checking up on friends current, old, and those I haven’t had a relationship with in a while. I found myself comparing myself unintentionally to their up and coming accomplishments. Many of them are graduating, or getting a job and some other lease to a brand new start and I can’t help but scan their happy faces in pictures, read their chipper statuses on facebook and feel the jealous pang as I long for the same kind of anticipation that is soon to be theirs while I wait back a year or forever until I so decide on what I should do next.

Sure I know that no one really knows what’s out there. That a lot of them are scared and uncertain. Some of them didn’t even want to leave. Worse of all, I know several of them were finishing their finishing after four years and then some. Heck, some of them, I’m sure are faking all that anticipation turning it to something that sounds exciting. There’s a few that are genuinely out there to divide and conquer but I know  that a lot too are faking it till they make it. Failure doesn’t sound as pretty and neither does uncertainty.

My roommates and friends are picking up caps and gowns, getting in to grad schools, sending invitations celebrating their triumph, and while I plaster a smile to show how happy and proud I am of them, I find myself wishing that I wasn’t so jealous and convincing myself that people reach their goals at different paces.

So now I constantly find myself “stalking” people on facebook trying to torture myself by reading blissful messages or some other which I know isn’t healthy. It’s like obsessing about an ex-boyfriend when you know that one, deep down you don’t really have feelings for him, but that you’d be caught dead if he’s doing better than you.

It’s not healthy and I’m trying to minimize stalking my friends to the barest. As in, only finding my friends who’s general well being I care about, not those that are like my “ex-boyfriends” .

Must focus on myself. Or take a social networking hiatus.

Let’s see, I’m 22 today and so far I feel normal and a little sad because no matter how much my boyfriend tries, today will not be the best day ever. I woke up knowing this. I woke up kind of knowing that with or without the ceremonious blowing out of candles and making wishes that there will be better days.

For as far as I can remember, I’ve always been kind of sand of my birthday. At the end of the day when I have torn all the presents up and eaten too much cake and ice cream I start thinking and feeling. And then the tear fest comes. I cry. A small sob. And to this day I’m not fully sure why I do that.

Then I thought maybe I’m narcissistic. I’ve always wanted my birthdays to be solely about me, and after last year’s 21st festivities a friend who organized my birthday drink soiree thing full of mostly her plans and her people, I felt a little annoyed and bitter.

I guess I’m always hoping that friends will gather and throw me a surprise party, the cheesy kind that when you get home after you and the boyfriend had a quiet dinner, friends pop up and yell “Surprise!”.

It hasn’t happened yet. But maybe one day it will.

So for now, I’ll blow my candles and eat my cake AND make myself realize that today may not be as glitzy or exciting or busy as other birthdays, but I should be grateful just the same.

A toast to 22/

But this week, I want to be in the same pace, seemingly, with everyone I know. And this week is getting so hard and I am feeling so incredibly left behind.

You see, everyone (and by everyone I mean it seems like most my college and high school friends) is graduating this Saturday.

Except for me.

I have an extra year holding out in this post secondary education of mine. I made all these mistakes and decisions that have altered my graduation date. But commencement is this Saturday, or atleast all this month and I am wishing that I am there with all of them celebrating, crying, and worrying if I’m going to get a job.

I tell myself that for some of them, graduating doesn’t mean they’re automatically successful. I keep telling myself that they just stuck to the schedule. I just have a few bumps that I need to get over. Yes, I’m a little behind.

I know all this. And I know that somewhere down the road I’ll finally understand and accept that this is my pace and I’ll move on with it. I always do. And that I can be and will successful, even more… in just a few year’s time.

But for now, I’m feeling behind and alone… and yes, a little bit of a failure. And I’m here trying to recall the numerous ways that I didn’t get things right the first time, but in the end I got over it… SO humor me for a bit… Here is the list that highlights moments of my life that I wasn’t “in sync” compared to my peers. I did everything a little bit behind because of chance, not being ready, or whatever the reason…

1.) Driving

I could have legally driven at age 15… But nooo, according to my parents I wasn’t nearly ready enough to drive. Of course at that time you look forward to driving at 16. I was a little bit bitter and thought my parents were being cruel. I would forever be that uncool girl in high school who couldn’t drive anywhere and had to be picked up with my family’s minivan or worse… ride the school bus that my brother and I affectionaly call the “big yellow turd”.

But now, I understand why I didn’t drive when everyone else did. My parents would not let me jeopardize my life or other people’s. Especially NOT when I initially thought that “R” meant Right instead of Reverse, I had no bearings, and I sometimes got left confused with right. They (My parents) were right, and I am alive and on my way to seeing my 22nd year. I can drive anywhere and whenever, sometimes with no hands (just kidding), and the days when I wanted the world to open up and swallow me whole because I’m the only 16  year-old NOT driving, is but a distant and almost comical memory.

2.) Learner’s Permit

I failed it the first time I took it. By 1 stinking point. Here in Georgia there’s a law portion and the road sign portion. I took the road sign portion without a hitch… 20 out of 20 I believe… And then it turned out that I was less than prepared for the law portion and all it’s trickery… I failed that part and had to come back next day to retake that portion of the exam. The most embarassing part is that my brother and I were taking it at the same time (he’s 11 months younger) and he passed it.

3.) Driver’s License

I also failed it the first time I took it because apparently, I endangered the life of the test proctor (actually, it wasn’t my fault… there was a van full of crazy drivers that startled me and I was already so nervous), and I flew through the rail road crossing that I didn’t see coming.  Took it the day after without a hitch. But still, I had to take it twice.

Now, I don’t even care that I failed it the first time. Sure, it would have been cool to drive at 16 and to not have failed and been taunted for weeks by my siblings… but now, at near 22 years old, I can drive anywhere and wherever like it’s second nature that I’ve completely forgotten how that felt a few years back.

4.) The wrong guy asked me to prom

And I thought it was such a joke that I decided to go solo with a bunch of other single ladies. Although I had fun, and a guy friend walked me down for the senior walk through, I would have loved to have a date and someone to slow dance to…or take cheesy couple picture with that my future husband and grand children can taunt me with for the rest of my life. No corsage and no date…

In the end, it wasn’t too bad. I had a great time without a guy or a date or whatever. I’m just glad my friends were there to keep me company.

5.) The college of my choice rejected me

I was good, but not good enough for the college of my choice, and I forever thought that going to my second choice college would be lame in comparison. When everyone I knew in high school were high fiving as they all seemingly got their top college, I wallowed in shame, my parent’s disappointment, and a future that I was uncertain about.

That feeling only last the summer after I graduated high school. It turns out that the college I went to gave me some of the best and most memorable times of my life.

6.) Editor-in-chief

Since deciding that I would dedicate my life as a student journalist. I had been working for the paper for all of my college career priming myself for the day I would become the editor-in-chief. I steadily climbed my way to editorial staff. That year, my only competition was a fellow section editor, with one less year of experience than me. The rest of the staff had full confidence that I would be the next editor-in-chief. Unfortunately, my competitor got the best job and I got offered the second best job. The one with more work but less prestige. I always wondered if it was because I was a girl. Or because I was always so nice, and yes, a little to bubbly. Maybe I should have been a bitch and I had a better chance at the job.

Oh well, I learned a little bit more I guess, doing a bigger job for the paper… and I wasn’t as stressed the editor-in-chief.

Bottom line is, I know (I hope) that I will get over this feeling of dejection. I was thought that somewhere down the road half of this wouldn’t even matter anymore (high school anyone?). I need to just keep telling myself that keeping up means nothing.

This is the beat I have to march to.

And it’s going be grand.

Here are some less obvious childhood myths (er, Santa and the Easter Bunny, unicorns) that I still find hilarious to this day and which has contributed to my list of quirks:

1. If you swallow a seed (grapes, apples, etc.) a plant will start growing inside of you.

I was so terrified to swallow any seed of any kind as a child that at one time I remember agonizing about a seed I swallowed. I can’t remember from what fruit it was but I do remember thinking that I’m feeling my stomach churn and that I would turn in to a freak because my mom would soon have to trim limbs bulging from all kinds of holes.

2. Speaking of ingesting seeds, I was also mortified the day I swallowed chewing gum. Someone told me it would stay in me for years and years. Some even told me it would get stuck there, hardening and blocking my system.

3. Sometimes I would make faces at people (poking tongues, making ugly faces, squinting and stretching my face…) my  mother told me that one day a mysterious wind would blow as I did that to my face and it would get stuck like that… forever!

When my mother said that I don’t think I’ve made faces at people like that for a while. I really thought my face would be stuck like that forever!

4. I was worried that God was really mad at me when there was a rainstorm.

I couldn’t remember who told me this but I was under the impression that God was super sad and wailing up there. Hence, it would rain and thunder. I thought that the world would eventually flood as in the days of Noah because I had been so awful.

5. I also thought that God was peeing when it rained.

Which absolutely grossed me out.

6. If you go out with wet hair, you’ll catch a cold!

7. Don’t swim after eating (especially on the beach)

Because… a shark will be more attracted to you! I was mortified! This is probably one of the many culprits on why I’m terrified of the ocean or why I can’t swim.

8. If you ate something with raw eggs (i.e. cookie dough) you will get worms in your stomach!

9. On certain weeks, and days, if you got a boo-boo it would NEVER stop bleeding and a demon will come out of it.

Since I was raised Catholic, it was important for little children to behave and learn the ways of Lent season ESPECIALLY the Holy Week. I rarely played outside from Palm Sunday to Black Saturday. Since I was  taught that Jesus was either dead or dying that week, I was told that the demons are especially active this week. I was terrified. And I was even led to believe that if I came to play outside and got some kind of injury that it would never stop bleeding and some kind of evil body would come out of my boo-boo.

10. If you weren’t home by the time the outside lights came on a “boogey-man” will come and get you.

There were so many other ones too. Being raised Filipino meant I had a lot more stories to worry about, like the giant that lived on trees and preyed on little girls at night. He usually smoked some kind of cigar and sometimes I’m still afraid to walk around really old, really big, and really creepy looking trees… At least it made me go home by the time the lights outside came on.

Posted in Childhood, Stupid Things People Say ]]> http://chasingeureka.wordpress.com/2009/04/22/the-myths-of-childhood-part-i/feed/ 0 anamaria518 unicorn-puzzle-7032282 http://chasingeureka.wordpress.com/2009/04/14/how-do-you-know-if-youre-in-love/ http://chasingeureka.wordpress.com/2009/04/14/how-do-you-know-if-youre-in-love/#comments Tue, 14 Apr 2009 15:08:39 +0000 Ana Maria http://chasingeureka.wordpress.com/?p=62 ]]>

A friend’s friend (Kika) had asked to interview me the other day for her research. It was her senior capstone project, and she had chosen to do a research based on romantic love.

This was weird for me because I was so used to interviewing other people and the topic she wanted to ask me about was something I wasn’t an expert of and something I don’t fully understand myself.

So, armed with her recording devices and her questions, Kika asked me if I had ever been in love.

“Yes” I said. “Well, at least I’m pretty sure I am.”

When was this? I told her that I was currently in love with my beau of over a year. But how did I know I was in love? Kika asked. What were my tell-tale signs?

Well, that was the question that took some time. It was an answer that took some tracking and deconstruction that even after the interview I still wasn’t fully realizing.

Was this the first time I’ve ever been in love?

My answer was that I consider this person, in this current relationship, the first actual time I’ve felt truly in love. Perhaps because it was the first time that both parties reciprocated love.

But I told her that at some point of my life, I thought I was in love with this particular guy, which I’m sure didn’t love me back. Or know I existed. Or thought I was a freak of nature who constantly ogled at him in class, the hallway, the cafeteria…

I knew it was unrequited love but it was a form of romantic love nonetheless.

Kika and I had a pretty long and serious conversation about what that “love” was supposed to feel like for me. Like the butterflies that made me half-way want to vomit when I saw “Miles” pranced around the high school hallways with his pristine presence. I associated that kind of breathless feeling when he so much looked at my direction or the way my cheeks burned so bright whenever my friends mentioned his name.

He was gorgeous. And yes, he was dreamy. And I  thought about him while I ate, while I switched classes, while I took notes, and I admit, while he probably chewed his food at lunch. I doodled his name on all my binders and put all kinds of silly hearts around his name in my journal.

I thought that was love. Until years passed and I was infatuated by another guy and the next and so forth. I was addicted to the butterflies that these guys gave me. Even without so much an introduction, I felt like I was in a twisted fairytale, until I realized that I couldn’t possibly be in love with them when the same butterflies flutter when I see Orlando Bloom in  the movies.

And then I started dating. And the guys actually liked me. There would be that initial and ever exciting first kiss. Some of which provided sparks and foot-popping moments, but in the end the bliss and excitement faded way too fast like that shooting star whose excitement didn’t even last long enough for you to whisper a wish.

It was disappointing. Not just for the promising kisses that meant nothing but for the other sloppy ones. The ones you give away because you had one too many potent drinks dressed with umbrellas. Or the ones that were given because it wasn’t such a horrible date and you felt like trying or feel obligated to at least give them a consolation prize.

So how now do I know that I am in love?

My beau to begin with wasn’t my type. He wasn’t as refined as I had imagined my dream guy to be. He was very outdoorsy, cusses too much, drinks beer instead of wine, likes to get muddy… there was a long list.

On the night I met him, I was with my roommates who insisted in taking me to the country in the middle of nowhere to find ghost. I knew there would be guys there but I was so determined not to impress anyone because I was sure they weren’t the kind of fish I wanted to catch. I didn’t wear make-up or my contacts. I didn’t tidy-up my hair.

It was a snobbish thing to do, which is why I guess God laughed and made plans otherwise.

I wasn’t particularly attracted to my beau, only mildly annoyed at his outpouring compliments to me. And our first kiss? It was perhaps one of the least romantic places I would ever pick for a kiss, which was preceded by an even more horrendous group date picked by someone else at some fish fry place (that I absolutely hated).

It took a few good weeks before there were any real butterflies or for me, enough sparks to call this one legit. It wasn’t until his awkward attempts to be romantic, that day on February we decided to walk on the beach and watch the sunset (and get stuck in the island as the high tide rolled in with sticky sand and frigidly cold waters) that I realized, after fighting it off, that I loved him.

If he could look at me in the eye and notice the navy blue rims around it, still find me attractive after being sticky and ungraciously falling and clamoring for his help as I told him I would drown in waist deep water (I can’t swim and I’m terrified of the ocean), hold my hand and keep me calm when he realized I had an irrational fear of certain car washes, and take care of me when I had some nasty flu that was went out both ways… I don’t know what else you’d call it. That kind of devotion had to be love.

It was the kind I had to learn from him, the kind that didn’t need me to be dolled up, the kind that appreciated even the silliest littlest thing I do. He may not have the same romantic notions as Nicholas Sparks, but damn, I don’t need butterflies when I can firmly say that while I don’t really blush when I hear his name, I do feel so elated, so happy, so excited that I get to spend time with him so I can love him every day. I don’t think about him every second and I don’t really doodle his name on my binder. The only thing I know for sure is that with him everything else seems like small stuff as long as he’s there by my side.

So yes, Kika. I am in love. I can’t say exactly how or describe it, much less give you a formula on how it happened.

I just know that I am.

Once upon a time, kids dressed up like adults... but actually didn't stay like that.

The other night I was flipping through the channels and came up across TLC’s Toddlers and Tiaras. Now, I never really liked this show, but I have in the past watched similar shows and documentaries because I was mesmerized by 5 year-olds with these giant hair and make-up so thick they look surreal. Like porcelain dolls but I think a little bit creepier.

But what’s even more amusing is not even the little girls but the crazy stage moms doing the over-the-top pageant winks and oooh-ahh’s with their mouths… and you know all the sashaying in the backstage. It’s scary. And you know they’re the ones that come up with all these things like getting a spray tan at age 6. And wearing fake teeth. And plucking eyebrows.

At age 6.

Seriously?

And it’s not just little pageant girls taking playing dress-up to the next extreme level. I once saw a four-year old girl at the Claire’s girl club getting her mascara applied on. Goodbye strawberry flavored glitter gloss. Your four-year old only wants her ruby red lipstick and vavava-voom lashes.

The craziest thing of all is that I hear a growing trend of pre-pubescent girls getting “virgin waxes”.

Um, I don’t know about you but what can you possibly wax down there at 10? Peach fuzz maybe… but seriously?

I’m not that far away from i remembering my childhood and boy I wish it lasted a bit longer. Why are we letting these kids run-around all glammed up like a mini-version of some 25 year-old sex pot? I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with kids playing dress-up and you know maybe drawing lips with their mother’s make-up, because that’s all ok.

What’s creepy is when moms actually let them do all these grown-up stuff  regularly and do the extreme grown-up exclusive stuff like getting a tan, getting non-removable acrylic nails (instead of just the good ‘ole plain polish), getting your hair perm or dyed a permanent color, lip plumpers, leg/arm shaving (unless you know, you have a Chewbaca child), and most of all, no bikini waxes.

If you dye a child’s hair blonde when she is originally brunette before she’s a teenager, chances are the message that it is conveying is not really that of confidence and beauty but rather that your brunnette hair isn’t as pretty as blonde (or vise versa) and you look better this way. Better than the natural way they were born.

Do we want little girls having an identity crisis at 10? I don’t think so. That’s what 16 is here for.

Besides, as I remember, these womanly rituals were a thrill and something to look forward to when you’re 13 or something. What happens when we take that away? What do we replace them with since we endowned these priveleges so early?

Do they start reading cosmo at 13? Get breast implants shortly after? Get botox at 18?

Anyway, here’s another blog that shows how ridiculous things are going these days especially if you can take your baby to a spa for $900. Why do kids need spas? I don’t know… The blogger is a little extreme, but you get the idea… check it out: http://rageagainstthemanchine.com/2009/03/28/dimples-kids-spa-making-your-6-year-old-sexy-as-fuck/.

Posted in Childhood ]]> http://chasingeureka.wordpress.com/2009/03/30/were-all-a-little-too-grown-up/feed/ 1 anamaria518 This used to be dress-up.