Let me preface this by admitting something: This article has no journalistic merit whatsoever. You’re about to dive head first into a pool of meaningless, delightfully embarrassing updates. Spoiler alert: I’m still not cool! “Still” being the operative word.
I’m having a hard time growing up. I haven’t quite resorted to green tights and frolicking with pirates, but my recent behaviors in the adult world certainly merit the addition of a new self-diagnosed disorder to my repertoire: Peter Pan syndrome.
You’d think that graduating college and stepping into the realm of occupation would have shaken me of some childish habits. Surely I should’ve adopted some grace and decorum as this big girl version of myself? But no, I’m apparently stumbling through my 20s as valiantly as I stumbled through my adolescence.
Nothing epitomizes this more than my experiences with the opposite sex. Dating or even speaking to men I don’t meet at Shooters has proven challenging, because I try to sound mature when really I am not. The other day, while texting a boy I find objectively attractive, I paused the flowing banter to Google synonyms for “holla at me.” You see, I wanted something more unique than “call me” but less ’90s than the aforementioned subject of my slang search. I don’t remember what I landed on, but it nonetheless affirmed my superb flirting technique (sarcastically speaking, of course). It takes me back to my elementary school days where I revealed my interest in a boy by just staring at him for approximately 30-45 seconds.
This sexting example is just a small fraction of the mass evidentiary support for my interpersonal ineptitude. Other moments include challenging unwilling male participants to dance-offs, greeting cute boys with “sup bro” and trying to rock pigtails without looking like I’m starring in a “She’s Almost TOO Young” porno.
While we’re talking movie genres, it’s clear my life isn’t quite a romantic comedy or a raunchy sex comedy or… wait, is my life a tragedy?? Whatever the Blockbuster classification, this lack of Georgian sexploitation allows me bountiful time to confront plenty of other more challenging adult situations. Like drinking alcohol. How many people can say that their first alcohol-induced vomitus maximus was after they had graduated college? I can I can! After 21 well-behaved and hangover-free years, I had a raucous night in. Just me, a friend and some White Russians. Two, count ‘em, TWO, vodka desserts later, I was puking on my own living room floor.
Since I can’t do normal adult things like drink and interact with human people, I’ve tried taking up some adult hobbies. They actually might be too adult. I have an unexpected arsenal of slutty past times—namely pole-dancing classes and nude art modeling. For the former, a gal named Virgo instills shimmy skills in me once a week. The latter one, admittedly, is more of a bucket list item than a solid hobby for now.… I submitted an application to be a nude model and got rejected. Thanks, Duke degree!! But just because the local art school doesn’t want to see my naked body doesn’t mean that I won’t keep striving toward my goal. Craigslist, for instance, seems to have a high demand for people interested in such craftsmanship. When one door closes, a creepy loner with an online ad opens his bedroom window… or something like that.
When I’m not learning lessons from strippers or stripping for learners of the arts, I promise I’m trying to mature. For example, I went to Ikea for the first time! I mean, it was a little overwhelming so I just ate dinner in the café and left. But the next day I went back and got a cleverly packaged lamp—improvement! Oh and when I met this orthopedic medical student at a bar on Saturday, I didn’t resort to my usual childish antics. Instead, I asked him for his professional opinion on my double-jointedness. Smooth, right??
Maybe I’m just a slow-learner. No boy, Big Lebowski beverage or lap-dance seminar has managed to teach me the delicacies of growing up. So what? If I were a grown-up, I wouldn’t still be writing for my college newspaper. Or at least I would be writing about something newsworthy. But I have fun writing this garbage, and I expect a couple of you readers (like my ashamed, yet easily amused family) have fun reading it. If I can publicly sport pigtails, then The Chronicle can handle a little silly self-satire.
Peter Pan had the right idea. Now it’s off to Never Neverland.
Lindsay Tomson, Trinity ’12, is currently applying her Duke-developed skills of sarcasm and awkwardness in the real world. Her installation of the weekly Socialites column runs on alternate Wednesdays. You can follow Lindsay on Twitter @elle4tee.