Hormone High

This week we visited a playground in a neighboring town--a very conservative, historically significant, old, old money town. Some high school girls were prowling around in teeny denim miniskirts and lace-trimmed, spaghetti-strapped tank tops, tossing their glossy hair. There were one or two boys in huge cargo shorts and white t-shirts. One boy was lying on his stomach on a picnic bench; a girl called over to him that she liked his ass. Another girl sprinkled water from her Poland Spring bottle on a boy's chest. The girls were like she-wolves hunting in packs. The boys were bewildered. One boy attempted to interpret a she-wolf's stalking behavior: "Do you need a ride home?"

I talked about it tonight at dinner with a friend who's a high school teacher. "Yeah, you just described my class," he said. "What's even worse is all the body image stuff these girls put themselves through."

What is with the high school girls? And their parents? Because my dad wouldn't even let me wear shorts to the mall. And he was right. I am sure I sound like a prude, or at least, a shriveled, bitter crone envious of the glossy-haired youth, but in my day (the 1980s), we did our pack hunting at track practice in gigantic t-shirts, boob-squashing sport bras, and flourescent Hind running tights, and we were plenty successful. So successful that I suddenly had a curfew at age 15. When I turned 16, my parents gave me a watch and said "This one won't be slow."

Now I feel even sleazier about having bought little Summy that beach chair with the midriff-baring Barbie doll on it. I support the empowerment of young women, and the last week of school in high school is really fun and exciting, but I also believe in being respectful to yourself and your community, and that means not dressing like a Kneeland Street hooker on a playground in the suburbs.

Comments

[Laird Nelson]

Amen, sister. I am so with you here.