This summer has certainly been filled with adventure and hustle & bustle galore. It's been a heck of a blast so far, if I do say so myself, and it is still in its prime. What a blessing. But amidst all of this action, I have been setting aside a little bit of time to write, mostly in the wee hours of the morning, but hey, that's when I do my best thinking. Mainly because I don't think at all; I merely write. Now, I have made considerable headway, and although it is still pretty shabby, I just really feel like sharing a bit of it. As I found myself falling deeper into the story and becoming weirdly attached to the characters within, I thought, "Ah, yes! Why not have others join in on the process?" So here it is. The opening to Good, Better, Beth. You are now entering the world of sixteen-year-old Beth Benson:
Now before I begin, I must let you in on a little bit of a secret, a little background check, if you will, to set the records straight. Sorry ladies, this is not some woe-is-me tale of a girl who is dissatisfied with all the characters within her sorry excuse for a life, dissatisfied with all those other than her cat, of course. No, no, I am perfectly content (to an extent) and quite far from even borderline depressed, or what is in my opinion much worse, a lovesick teen who makes perfectly clear her inevitable spinster fate through perpetual posts of "forever alone" or candids with the aforementioned caption. And sorry boys, this is not some juicy diary of all my hopes and dreams and fantasies, seeing as, truth be told, I don’t even know enough to conjure up such fantasies, and I am most likely the most innocent person on the face of the planet. And not necessarily by choice; let that sink in. In reality, I’m simply tossing out my thoughts here, relaying a few of the more notable stories that got me to where I am now, and letting ordinary become extraordinary, merely by sprinkling in an extra dose of ordinary. But be forewarned, I do not promise that my descriptions will be completely void of teen angst or vivid yearnings for more than the dog-eat-dog world of high school has to offer. Those will definitely make an appearance, but I’ll make my best attempt to keep it minimal.
So welcome to my life. Welcome to the life of a certain girl who formerly feared drowning in a sea of conformity, but has somehow managed to remain afloat. Welcome the life of one who used to be fancifully set on the pursuit of avoiding notice by fitting in as much as her unwilling-to-fit-in mind would allow. Welcome to a life of growth and discovery and ill but commendable attempts at raw, invigorating adventure. Welcome to a life of cliche teen anxiety. Welcome to a life of liberation, of breaking all ties with the “norm.” Yes; welcome, welcome, one and all.
First off, to describe myself. Hmm. This is tougher than I suspected. Alright, here we go, I’ve come up with an analogy. You know when you have a cavity in your mouth and you keep sucking in air periodically to check if it’s still there? That is the equivalent of my life. I am the gross, dank cavity. You see, my friends usually choose not to notice me, but they frequently check to see if I’m there, making sure their closest thing to a live-in psychiatrist is always quietly and unassumingly waiting by their sides, eager to do their bidding. Well, maybe that was a little harsh. It’s not that my friends knowingly take advantage of me; they just knowingly take advantage of the fact that I am notably easy to take advantage of. Thus, I suppose some of the blame can be traced back to myself, but just let me have my moment. Let’s just say, Pushover is my middle name. It actually is though. It’s my mom’s maiden name and for some reason she saw it fit to keep this “unique and honorable” name in the family. Ironic, huh? No, I’m totally kidding; I made that whole last part up. But if my middle name wasn’t Marie (how original), I would certainly make a point of suggesting that it be Pushover because that’s exactly what I am. I happily let people use me because I like to see other people happy. My biggest fear in life is confrontation. And frankly, if you don’t want people to take advantage of you, confrontation is usually essential. But that’s me. And I’ve grown so accustomed to my place in the social classes of high school that I’ve become immune to the fact that this probably isn’t okay. It’s fine by me for now.
Oh, and how could I forget about boys? Now, I’m not ugly, at least that’s what my mom seems to think. I’m just not, uh, what’s the correct term for it? Oh yeah, “sexy.” Let me break it down for you. What I lack in curves, I make up for intelligence and you might find this hard to believe, but that does not generally suffice for the “curious” boys of my age. I had a boyfriend once. Timmy Jenkins, 7th grade, 3 week relationship. He was five inches my junior, but I didn’t mind. We were promoted to the couples table on the far end of the cafeteria, strategically placed behind a large pillar, blocking any potential PDA from the view of the teachers on the opposite side of the room. It was perfection. And to me, all seemed right with the world. How did our 3 week tryst originate, you ask? Well Timmy was a big music buff, and word on the street was that I made the best mix tapes (It was true.), so we began talking. He promised that if I made him a new mix every week, he would call me his girlfriend, and the newness of it all, of being acknowledged by a boy for something other than a hastily-copied answer to an unfinished homework question, made me promptly and swooningly agree to the plan. He was very fond of those weekly presents, and I grew very fond of his presence. Therefore if I gave, he stayed, and we both won. Then the fourth week I went out of town to visit my cousins in Seattle, and when I came back, we were over. I hadn’t been able to give him the mix tape for the week, and I was later told that he had been waiting for the opportune time to “let me down gently.” And I never talked to him again. I cried to my mom about it later, and she - never the best in the comforting department - said, “That’s why you can’t mix love and payment. At least now you know that you’ll never be a successful hooker.” Valid point, I guess.
But this year, I’ve had my hopes - and eyes - set on a certain Owen Shatner. He’s the type of boy who’s so attractive that even his threats can be mistaken for promises. Is that provocative? Good. The other day in the hallway I said, “Hi,” and he smiled. Yeah, I guess you could say things are coming along swimmingly. Owen is captain of the lacrosse team, an avid member of the “Jocks for Jesus” club, and chair of the environmentally conscious group, “Woodn’t It Be Nice To Save the Trees?” I suppose you could say he’s got it all. Except me. Eww, that was weird and unnecessary. I apologize for saying that. But anyway, he’s cool. I’m not one of those obsessive people who dreams about their love interest all day and all night and gets all heart-poundy and clammy every time they come around. I’m quite keen on the art of nonchalance, on the idea that if we build it, they will come. So, if I keep looking good, he’ll end up making the first move. Aw, who am I kidding? It’s realizations like these that add to my ever-growing conviction that love is nothing but a fantasy, a strong, emotional infatuation that we mistake for something more. But anyway, I digress.
I just have a difficult time fitting in with this modern generation and the mentality of this modern generation. They demand excitement, to see things move. I demand to BE moved. The other day I asked my friend Henry if he wanted to go lay in a field somewhere and look at the clouds as they rolled on by, and he, after discovering that he had no better offers, agreed to join me on my journey that cloud-ridden afternoon. We found a great spot in the park a couple blocks down from my house in the soft, warm, tickling mid-spring grass and proceeded to lay and gaze, gaze and lay. Finally, after the prolonged silence became unbearable and Henry had dozed off for the second time, I suggested that we add some excitement, some zest, some sort of captivation to an activity that had clearly lost a large portion of its appeal due to the dawning of the age of the smart phone. So I said, “Let’s say what we see in the clouds. Like, what does that one look like to you?” I pointed to a cloud in the distance that was clearly an exact replica of an egg, sunny-side-up in a frying pan. After he guessed “cotton ball” and “snow bank,” I decided that he was missing the point. And I also decided that this generation needed help. We’re forgetting that screens aren’t windows and contact with the intangible, the abstract, the thought-provoking, is pivotal and mustn’t - CANNOT - be lost. We’re so stupid that we can’t grasp the idea of digging deeper than the surface, of succumbing to the fact that a change in perspective can unveil a whole new world, a picture whose presence is ordinarily overlooked or lost in the endless shuffle to adhere only to the concrete, the simple, and nothing more. Perhaps I’m misguided, an old soul who needs to suck it up and give in to the boisterous, consuming “pleasures” and “advances” of the now. Perhaps this is the case. Perhaps also I don’t care to give in.
Hooray.
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