It's a pain.
I feel my life whipping by me.
And it's not that I want to savor the moments, as they come.
That would be too sane, and reasonable.
Instead, I want to mope, about things that are not happening. I am not beautiful. I was never a beautiful nineteen year old, never tempting jailbait. And now, I enter my mid-twenties, the sexual equivalent of Cracklin' Oatbran.
Sensible, Useful, Serviceable, and above all, an acquired taste.
Nobody says "You know what I could go for? Some motherfucking cracklin' oatbran!"
People want a steak, a piece of chocolate cake. Mousse. Champagne. Whipped Garlic Mashed Potatoes. (I am hungry, by the way) They lust after thick cheeseburgers, 80/20, smoky bacon, a slice of swiss cheese melting from the heat of the meat, sautee'd mushrooms sliding earthily from between the buns...
What do the condemned eat, for their last meal? Fried Chicken. Strawberry iced cream. Pizza. Lobster.
Nobody wants Cracklin' OatBran. It's shit at parties. Nobody makes Cracklin' Oatbran Party mix. Even frumpy old Chex gets tarted up with Worcestershire Sauce, pretzel sticks, and cocktail peanuts for the occassional barbeque.
You could have Cracklin' OatBran every day. It would work tirelessly to regulate your digestive tract. Generously supplying at least thirty percent of the RDA for dietary fiber, with a slightly sweet taste and a reliable gritty, nutty, semi-crunch experience, it could be a staple.
But you wouldn't love Cracklin' OatBran.
You wouldn't get excited about Cracklin' OatBran.
You could appreciate it. But would you recommend it to others? Would you, as the box suggests, put it over ice cream, or bake it into muffins? Would you try to see if there was a way to incorporate more of it into your life? Would you, delighted by this unassuming breakfast cereal, talk it up to your friends?
You fucking wouldn't.
And here's the tragedy, folks.
It is the birthright of every female to at least be a cheeseburger for a year or so. Something mouthwatering, for a while at least. Even the plainest girl, with the blush of youth, high breasts and slim waist of the genetically gifted post-adolescent, can be lusted after with the tumescence of a gourmand.
Everybody gets to be the star once. It's like the special olympics, or a middle school play. Even the thick-tongued semi-literate recent slovakian emigre gets a solo.
But not me.
When the cast list is announced, I am always one step up from scenery. I am the tree. I am nothing special. One of the chorus, at best. "Townsperson". "Woman #5".
And it's not that I think I should be the star.
I just want to know what it's like.
Inherent to current western conceptions of the feminine experience is a time of broad-spectrum sexual appeal. I've missed out on that part of the experience. And I'm 24. I've got a year left to try to be beautiful.
Let's see what it would take.
1. Lose 50 libs, at least.
2. Braces, and teeth whitening.
3. Banishment of the eastern european legacy.
4. Learn how to wear make up and clothes.
5. Stop being an awkward bastard.