The Friend Zone, Naked Friends, and Other Not-So-Platonic Things

I have a question I think most twenty-somethings would consider burning (or at least fairly itchy): where in GOD’S NAME is the friend zone actually located??

Can I get some coordinates? Are we talking about being stopped at the five yard line with 10 seconds remaining or being sidelined altogether? Is the friend zone some kind of relationship purgatory – the holding cell of the blossoming romance? Or is the friend zone more like the right lane on the interstate: meant to be passed?

No one seems to have a clear definition of where the friend zone actually is, who resides there, and what exactly goes on inside the parameters, but we’re ALL talking about it. If you do a quick Google search, you’ll find Wikipedia has dedicated a page to the friend zone, Psychology Today has published on the subject, and even a writer from the Chicago Tribune has taken a whack at trying to uncover the goings on of this most loathsome platonic space. Need further proof? Just check out Urban Dictionary. There are four rather lengthy definitions exploring the nature of the friend zone, its regions, its application, etc. And then there’s my personal favorite: “(3) The friend zone - When a girl decides that you're her friend, you're no longer a dating option. You become this complete non-sexual entity in her eyes, like her brother, or a lamp.” For Christ’s sake, the Oxford English Dictionary Online added the friend zone to its litany. But all this talking is to no avail, because I still don’t know WHAT THE DAMN THING IS.

Here’s why I say this: the friend zone corresponds in our cultural imagination to a space where only lovelorn (or maybe just sexlorn) men end up when the objects of their affection (or lust) ain’t biting (or whatever else). Okay. Sure. Penny friend zoned Leonard for two years. Rachel friend zoned Ross multiple times. Pepé Le Pew tried FOREVER to get Penelope Pussycat to give him a shot, but the dog just wouldn’t hunt. Er, well, cat.

Still, I’ve got to ask about our long-suffering lady brethren. Can’t we be friend zoned? I know Billy Crystal already told us this was virtually impossible; according to him (or more accurately, Harry), we’re supposed to believe straight men are walking sex machines thinking of nothing but how to get women (specifically every woman) into bed – and then maybe to hang out long enough to date a little. But, if this is true, why are so many of my remarkable lady friends perpetually pulling out their hair over blockhead guys who can’t figure out if they’re cooking dinner for these girls because they wants to date them or because they really do want to prove that they can do more than microwave Spaghetti-O’s? Bottom line: I CALL BULLSHIT. I don’t know about you gals out there, but I’ve been placed squarely in the friend zone a few times before. And each time I end up crying over Friends reruns and desperately clutching my copy of Mansfield Park while I yell at Fanny for being such a damn moron. This is what “friendship” looks like, kids.

It seems curious that, as a society, we seem to wholeheartedly buy into the idea of the friend zone – and the humor therein – despite the lingering anomalies. For example, do our best friends belong in the friend zone? Can we zone hop? Can we put ourselves in the friend zone?!? OH, and what happens if, say, a fella friend zones me, but someone else friend zones him? Are we zoned together? Seriously – I’m not actually trying to hang out in this murky platonic wonderland while I pine over him and he pines over someone else. Because awkward. So here’s my question: is the friend zone a multi-regional place? If that’s case, I’d like to make a reservation at the Friend Zone Waldorf, thank you.

Of course, when you take into account the advent of the Naked Friend, the whole notion of the friend zone becomes even more complicated.

What is this Naked Friend I speak of? Well.

I have a best friend. We’ve known each other since we were twelve. At this point, we’ve literally been friends longer than we haven’t been. She knows everything about me – literally. All the weird, perverted, and sincerely uncomfortable elements I wish no one ever had to know, she knows. Our sisters are best friends, our moms are best friends, and I think our dads might be best friends if they weren’t both so socially awkward. We’re so close that I can freely listen to her pee while we’re on the phone, and it doesn’t freak me out. Ours is the stuff of friendship legend – one of those relationships that gets turned into a caricaturized sitcom friendship played by better looking actors. I’m forever putting decorations on the wall but forgetting to clean the lint trap; she thinks I have the fashion sense of an 80 year old Jewish woman but sews me pretty pillow covers anyway. Seriously, that’s love.

I’m also very close to another girl, My Married Friend (so called because, ironically, she’s married). She eloped with her husband when she was nineteen – and by eloped, I mean went to the beach and got married in some lady’s yard in front of a rusted motor boat and a Jesus lawn ornament. And, even though all of our mutual friends have been comrades their whole lives, we didn’t know each other until college. However, during my junior year of undergrad, all of the hallowed forces of the universe lined up to bring us together. And since then, we’ve been eating our way to a beautiful friendship, one slice of beef pizza and a child’s portion of spaghetti at a time. She is the Christina to my Barb. (Yes, that makes me Wanda Sykes; my inner spirit guide is most definitely a black lesbian with a fro.) The bottom line is we were meant to be.

Until recently, I lived with a roommate I met during my first year of grad school. She’s my exact opposite in every way. She grew up on a North Carolina mountain about fifteen minutes outside of Asheville. Given her southern mountain upbringing, she speaks the crazy mountain talk, and about 85% of the time I don’t have a goddamn clue what she’s saying to me. I swear to God I need captions when she gets excited. She also eats the most peculiar food concoctions I’ve ever seen (i.e. cornbread and milk joined together in a chunky mess in my nice coffee mugs), and she always, always has a bottle of Coke around. Yet, in spite of the country rearing, she’s probably the most intelligent, anal person I know in actual life. I’ve literally never seen someone do school work every day of the week. (As a general rule, these are usually the times I’m sitting on the couch watching The Nanny on Nick at Night and praying I wake up early enough to finish what I need to do the next day.) Still, despite her various OCDs, she never seems to remember to put my hand towels back on the oven rail, nor does she load the dishwasher in any logical pattern I can comprehend. And, truthfully, I love everything about her – including the odd mix of Appalachian WASPiness and Timberland-wearing sass that combine to complete her. Or maybe because of it.

These are not naked friends.

Contrary to Girls assertion that platonic women friends take baths together while eating cupcakes, we don’t. Unless we’re lesbians, in which case the bathing is part of the deal. And maybe cupcakes if she’s an awesome girlfriend.  (Take note, fellas.) Generally speaking, though, girls aren’t sudsing it up together unless sex or alcohol – or some combination thereof – is involved.

No, the Naked Friend is a whole different animal.

When you do finally discover sex – which I’ll admit was a bit later in the game for me – you’ll realize it’s really, really fun. Not in the 50 Shades of Grey, everyone gets off like they’re popping soda cans kind of way, but in an it’s nice to be near you, I like the way you smell kind of way. Sex is, for many of us, both extremely anxiety provoking and that which we most desire. Like Taco Bell – delicious in the moment but so caloric you’ll have to work out for a week to be able to button your pants again. It’s this dichotomous nature of sex that complicates the whole concept of the naked friend.

However, watch any media depiction of twenty-something life: apparently we’re all in bars every night, wearing Gucci, tipping back vodka cranberries, leaning over pool tables like porn stars, and bating ridiculously hot potential sex partners with the mere power of our eyes. Maybe some of us are. But more than likely, you’re sitting at home with your cats (or dogs) exhausted from a long day of trying to prove your worth at a job where no one gives a crap about you. Which makes the Naked Friend hard to come by.

For most (if not all) of us, the Naked Friend is a rarity, like a precious gem or an intelligent Kardashian sister. And why? Because a lot of us who choose to get naked together aren’t feeling anything remotely like friendship. Let’s be real: wanting to touch privates with somebody else (and then really going the whole nine yards) is the only thing separating couples from buddies in the first place. Still, it seems to me that a great many of us in our twenties are convinced that nudity is a perfectly acceptable part of friendship. As in, we can see each other’s business, go a few rounds, smack each other on the ass, and then head out for a burger and a pitcher. I’m not denying the existence of the Naked Friend, mind you. But I do wonder: are naked friends maybe (just maybe) always already on the friend zone highway without even knowing it?

Given all the complexities, you might be inclined to think the friend zone is something like Gilligan’s Island for unrequited love, and naked friends just aren’t sober enough to know that’s where they really are.  It’s easy to assume that all of us in the friend zone are living out our days in various states of anxiety – and in Thurston Howell’s case, drunkenness – waiting for a tug boat to come along and scoop us up. True, we might meet some fairly interesting people along the way. I mean, after all, we’ve got a doctor and a movie star. (Although I’m having difficulty believing Carrie Mulligan has ever been friend zoned. Hell, I wouldn’t friend zone her.) Nevertheless, the friend zone still fundamentally appears to be the relationship equivalent of the Island of Misfit Toys. Except with potential suitors. So more like the Island of Sexless Chums. But this can’t be, right? Just look at the naked friends! They are friends. They are naked. They are naked friends. So someone please tell me, what in the actual fuck is the point of the friend zone if we can get naked together and then kick back with a case of PBR and play a few rounds of rummy?!

Alright, alright. Don’t panic. Drop that complete Friends discography and put hard liquor away.

BECAUSE, despite the dire outlook, I’ve also been wondering lately if perhaps there’s more to the Naked Friend and the friend zone than simple friendship. Could it possibly be that, for a large majority of twenty-somethings, the friend zone is a place to cool our jets while our “friend” tries to get their bearings about them? Please note what I’m offering here isn’t advice on avoiding the friend zone; rather, I’d like to think of it as a way to make peace with the anxiety, the frustration, the late night boozing and ensuing haziness, the way-too-personal gestures that are in no way merely friendly, the weirdly out of place kisses or maybe the ill-conceived roll in the hay, and, generally, the lack of geographical awareness. If there’s a highway into the friend zone, there’s one that leads out, right? Maybe it’s all just a trial period. And maybe not. But think of it this way: at least you’re among friends. 

All original content copyright Kimberly Turner, 2013-2013.

Raising Hell! (...And Dahlias Too)

I have a secret.

What, you ask? Is she addicted to cocaine? Does she lead a double life as a dominatrix? Does she secretly hoard York Peppermint Patties in her bra??

Sadly, no. I hate to disappoint. I’m not that exciting. I barely like blowing my nose, so cocaine is definitely out. I’m not even remotely coordinated enough to be a dominatrix. And in my apartment, my roommate is the hoarder. (Although, to be fair, she keeps her Tootsie Pops on the top shelf of her closet, like any good food hoarder would.)

No, my secret isn't as thrilling as all that, but it’s something I haven’t told anyone except my nearest and dearest. Because even as I think it, I feel like a creep. But here goes: I think I might be a crappy feminist.

OHMYGODNOSHEDIDN’T.

I know. I know. It’s terrible. It’s the worst thing a 21^st century woman could ever, EVER admit out loud. (Unless, of course, you think 50 Shades of Grey is quality literature, in which case you’re in a class all your own). But really, I think I might actually be a terrible feminist.

Not in a disturbingly scary, Anne Coulter kind of way, though. Before you call the National Organization for Women and report me for lady-hating, I should clarify that I’m probably one of the most outspoken and openly indignant women you've met since the limp penis ascot blouse went out of style. I’m little, I’m loud, and I've got Irish fire coursing through my blood. I’m basically a one-woman Rush Limbaugh coronary waiting to happen. I may be a shitty feminist, but I still want women to have the right to vote and leave their houses in pants and read books written with multi-syllabic words. I ain’t into the barefoot and pregnant thing. Unless you decide that’s what you want to do. (And then, by all means, do you boo boo. Do. You.)

Honestly, though, I sincerely and ardently believe women are intelligent and capable and deserve every damn cent of every damn dollar for every damn hour they work. I’m into birth control and sex education and single parents and little girls and boys playing with whatever toys make them shut up for the longest amount of time. I’m conscious of what I wear, and I think about what I say. I am single-handedly keeping The Vagina Monologues running. I’m with women (and men) all the way.

That being said, I think I suck at feminism.

It’s a tricky thing to confess, especially since I have a degree in Gender Studies. You’d think a woman like me would be a Grade A, free range, 97% fat free feminist. But I’m not. I studied gender, and with that came a major emphasis on queer theory. For those outside of the academic circle, gender studies and queer theory aren't quite as LGBT-centric as they sound. (Although I do spend a good deal of my time in the company of those who practice the love that dare not speak its name. And it’s awesome.) Queer theory is, in actuality, mostly concerned with interrupting a culture which naturalizes white, Christian, middle-class, hetero-normative culture at the expense of – well – everyone else. Suffice it to say, queer theory hasn't exactly made it to the streets yet. It’s predominately significant to a small group of scholars who actually like to write twenty page essays and present them at conferences and wear monochromatic pant suits. Like me.

What’s most important about queer theory and gender studies is that a whole generation of twenty-something men and women (and me) grew up post-feminist movement and right dab smack in the middle of a whole new mindset. Not just post-second wave, big glasses-wearing, frizzy-haired, Gloria Steinem feminism. We’re post post second wave feminism. So post that most of us aren't old enough to remember 1992’s “Year of the Woman.” Why? Because we were all more excited that we had learned how to flush on our own. Given our life spans, feminism seems almost – dare I say it? – dated.

Please don’t shoot me.

But think about it. If I’m specializing in issues of gender and sexuality, and even I think feminism is beat, there have got to be a few more people out there who have been feeling this way for a while. Maybe it’s because feminists couldn't foresee a future in which a study of gender might stretch beyond just women’s issues. Maybe they were SO DAMN PISSED for being drugged up and impregnated and shellacked with department store beauty products that they went too far the other direction. Whatever the reason, I've got to say, our second and third wave feminist

friends (an extremely valiant group of women, don’t get me wrong) handed us 21^st century ladies a hard narrative to follow.

Don't misunderstand me. Betty Friedan was on the money when she said, “No woman gets an orgasm from shining the kitchen floor.” I don’t. Never have. And unless Swiffer gets really creative in the next few years, I doubt I ever will. But sometimes, I've got to admit, being a Strong Feminist Woman is really damn exhausting. I’m not doubting myself or undermining my own badassery. I am begot from a line of women so strong they make Lou Ferrigno seem like an asthmatic four year old. I come from a woman who moved 14 hours away from home when she was twenty-three for a job in a place she knew jack about. She’s the same woman who subsequently had a breast removed, stared cancer down with a stony eye, and worked out after every round of chemo. This heifer ain’t no joke. This is my blood people. Sia don’t know shit about titanium.

But there’s a flip side to this whole Strong Feminist Woman business. Our fore-mothers gained a tremendous amount of ground in a short span of time, and those women made it possible for me to even study gender in the first place. But, BY GOD, did they leave us twenty-something women (and men) with a lot of damn baggage. We live with an incredible number of social rules regarding what it means to be a strong woman (and possibly even more about what it means to be a man who respects strong women).

So, here’s my quandary: I’m vulnerable, and I’m not sure if that’s okay.

I don’t know if modern women even have a script for how to be strong and vulnerable. The whole notion had a brief shining moment in the late eighties, but somewhere along the way, our mothers were scared off. Maybe Olympia Dukakis was just too damn awesome. And Greek. Whatever the reason, a vulnerable, emotional feminist seems to be a cultural taboo these days. Remember when Hillary Clinton cried on the presidential campaign trail in New Hampshire? She faced considerable backlash (from both sides) who claimed her emotions were calculated or that she was doing female politicians a disservice by pandering to stereotypes about femininity. She was accused of trying to win over voters with a “human touch” – as if, at their cores, strong feminist women are all black box hearts and haphazardly crossed wires.  Clearly, we’re only programmed to show emotion when it’s advantageous – you know, when holding babies or petting kittens or trying to win the Democratic bid for president. Moments like that.

Whatever the reason, the Strong Feminist Woman in her twenties trying to be hip and socially conscious is, under no circumstances, allowed to admit that sometimes, when she’s sure no one will catch her, she reads romance novels for the love story, not just the sex. And she absolutely cannot own to watching Sabrina and sighing a little wistfully because Audrey Hepburn wore the most ridiculously gorgeous clothes ever donned or because Humphrey Bogart was clearly her soul mate (only he died 25+ years before she was born). And she definitely, definitely can’t admit that sometimes men hurt her feelings. Because she’s a feminist, dammit.

Well, fuck all that noise. I have this new theory I've been working on for Strong Feminist Women looking for something perhaps a little more…21^st century.  It goes something like this:

I’m a feminist. I cry. Deal with it. 

All original content copyright Kimberly Turner, 2013-2013.

Single in Public: A War Story

On any given day, I feel as though I’m trudging through a minefield. Metaphorically speaking, of course. There’s no danger of actually blowing myself to bits. I am, however, one of the sundry masses currently living in the middle of a cultural war zone, trying desperately to avoid getting my ass nicked in the crossfire. If you’re single, you know what I mean. And if you’re a single lady, you especially know what I mean. This isn’t a war of guns and cannons and unspeakable horrors. (Well, maybe a few unspeakable horrors here and there.) This isn’t a war of the roses, or a war of the worlds, of even a war between the sexes. No, this is a different kind of war. This is the war between the two-by-twos and the single-filed, the date nighters and the eating alone in my pajamas-ers, the cuddle at home folks and the knocking back mixed drinks at 2 AM crowd. This is a war between the couples and the singles.

Let’s be clear, though. This war wasn't instigated by our happily-in-love brethren. Love is grand, and those in love deserve their happiness (regardless of race, religion, or gender). Most of my dearest friends and both of my siblings are doing the peach-faced lovebird thing. I’m not even one of those people who desperately seeks coupledom 364 days of the year only to suddenly despise the very notion on Valentine’s Day. Mine isn't a diatribe against love or couples at all, actually. They’re just pawns, the poor saps. Nope, this is straight up, low down, so dirty you have to say Hail Mary’s for a month social combat.

What the hell is the point of this monolith, you ask? Allow me: this is about couple culture.

For those of you twenty-somethings who were lucky enough to marry your high school sweethearts and be each other’s firsts and lasts, I envy you. And you know why? Because being Single in Public is absolutely the worst conceivable thing a person in his/her twenties can do – aside from admitting to friends that s/he thinks The Office is overrated. That’s actually sacrilegious, and thus goes against Jesus. The rest of us though, us schlubs who are obligated to drink our way through dating and awkward sex, we’re not so fortunate.

This ain’t a world for singles. That’s right, mass media. I said it. Our cultural set-up favors couples. Think about it. The whole social system is designed around the idea that people will, inevitably, couple up. What’s the narrative we’re all told from birth? Go to school, get an education, get married, have babies. BOOM. We barely even have to think about it. And, really, we go through an enormous amount of effort as a culture to ensure that coupling up seems like the normal path. There’s jewelry for couples, there’s music for couples, there are frames for couples. I mean, when’s the last time you went to Target and saw a cute frame with “Rocking the Single Life” embossed on it? Let me answer that one for you: NEVER. The message here is that it obviously isn’t socially acceptable to hang pictures of yourself pimping your Friday night best and tossing back vodka cranberries. But get married or find a significant other and you can cover your walls top to bottom with Cute Couple Pictures, and Target will be more than happy to offer you an affordably charming decorative frame just for the occasion.

Now, I dare you to walk into your local bistro and have a meal by yourself. The host will, without a doubt, first ask you if you’re meeting someone, but in a way that makes you seem as if you have the bubonic plague. Something like, “Just you tonight?” Yeah, hooker, just me. Sometimes I’m hungry ALL BY MYSELF. Then, when you’re seated at your table for six, looking like the loneliest loser on the planet, the other patrons will begin shooting you that really sympathetic look that says they’re really sorry you got stood up, which is in turn followed by the uncomfortable shifty eyes when you don’t run for the door in tears. Since, clearly, the only reason you’d eat alone is because your date decided you were, in fact, not cool enough to spend an hour with or you’re suffering from early onset dementia. And don’t even entertain the notion of going in if you’re extremely hungry. More than one plate (and/or glass of wine) equals unparalleled social suicide. You might as well cut yourself a mullet and pull out your third grade fanny pack. You’re that guy now.

And I’m not even going to talk about going to the movies alone – particularly if you’re a Disney fan, as is yours truly. I’m surprised I’m not in jail yet.

Let’s face it: we, as a culture, court an underlying suspicion of single people. And, in this the technology age, we go to extraordinary lengths to let everyone – including our best friend’s fifth grade boyfriend who now lives in another state – that we are definitely part of a couple. We live in a fantastic time to be partnered up. Social media practically begs it of you. What in the world is Instagram for if not for sharing all the ridiculously cute pictures of you and your significant other buying organic produce at your local farmer’s market? (Sadly, try as I might, me and Moms just don’t have that same glow in our Cute Couple Pictures.) Facebook, though, is by far the worst of the worst. Yes, as a single person, I do absolutely love finding out that people I’ve known since I was still drooling on myself are now engaged while I sit alone in my apartment and experiment with all of the foods that taste good with Nutella. Thanks for that notification, Zuckerberg. (Ritz crackers are the best, if you’re wondering). And it’s not as if you can really announce with pride that you’re single and pretty cool with it. Who wants to publicize to everyone in their social circle and even some people they've never met before that they are, in fact, just single? Not that we all couldn't tell by your considerable lack of couple pictures or meme shares from your significant other or status tags from your partner about how much they just REALLY LOVE YOU. Of course, thanks to Facebook’s new effort to track our every life event, we can now see that you aren't “In a Relationship” and that you haven’t bought a house on We’re So Happy We Thought We’d Take Pictures of Our Stove Ln. I mean, if I take a picture of my stove and post it on Facebook, I’m high. (But then again, I’m single.) So all us non-coupled folks have to act like we’re all LIVING THE DREAM, BRO when, in reality, we’re just being normal. Solo style.

The point is we’re conditioned from an early age to be extremely anxious if we’re single for too long. A little while? Okay, that’s called healing or sowing your wild oats or finding out who you really are. More than a year? Time to get back out there, partner. You’re fucking things up. At the very least, you need to listen to “Tired of Being Alone” on repeat and wish fervently for someone to accompany you as you shop for chemical-free cucumbers. If not, your relatives start to question your sexuality. Or set you up on blind dates. Or some combination thereof. Either way, you will have to answer for your lifestyle.

What our society fails to realize, though, is that single life has its perks. And since Her Highness Beyoncé threw her two cents in with “Single Ladies,” single life has definitely become a hell of a lot cooler. And maybe no one’s writing movie scripts about those singles among us who are content with our lives, but we’re here, and we’ve figured out that it’s really not that bad. Just think: I have an entire queen-sized mattress to myself. All those blankets? Oh yeah, those are mine. No one gives me judgey face when I eat spaghetti at midnight. (Which, by the way, is when spaghetti tastes the best.) If anyone’s drinking the last beer in the fridge, it’s me. If I decide I want to uproot and spend a year teaching Moroccan children how to weave baskets with their teeth, that’s my prerogative. And sometimes, when I just don’t feel like wearing pants, I let my no-purchase-necessary Victoria’s Secret cheekies see the light of day. There’s nobody to impress except myself. And I’m a really laid back kind of girl.

I may not have a companion, but I’m okay with it. What I’m not okay with is feeling obligated to slut it up and show the world that I am trying, really trying, to couple up. I don’t want to beg for acceptance. Because, as a recently singled friend of mine said to me in her infinite wisdom, “One day our princes will come, but until then, we’ll be fucking fabulous.” Even if that means just hanging out with our respective pets and eating Nutella on Ritz crackers.

All original content copyright Kimberly Turner, 2013-2013.

Scrambling Eggs in a Flea Market Wok

Being poor is a bitch.

Okay, so, that’s not exactly a revelation. There’s an entire developing world that can testify to how much being poor really does suck. Places where people live in shanty towns and goats are used as currency. Places where people don’t have rooms stuffed full of books and movies and artsy candles – or rooms at all, for that matter. Places where animal hospitals and iPhones and clean running water are the stuff of legend. 

And, yes, I understand there’s a fundamental irony in complaining about the state of my finances as I sit on my sheet-swathed,queen-sized bed and type on my laptop – the laptop my parents bought for me out of the goodness and kindness of their hearts because I can barely afford my morning coffee. No one will ever let me starve or live without air conditioning or wear Toms with holes in them. I am, in all honesty, the picture of first world problems.

That being said, being poor is a pain in the ass.

Poverty isn't just an annoyance.Annoying is the cowlick in the front of my hair that gives me the early 90s Eric Matthews bangs – the same bangs I have to straighten until they’re smoking in order to look the part of the Nico-esque hipster I am at heart. Annoying is the knowledge that the pizza I love in the deepest part of my soul is sitting directly on my ass cheeks. Annoying is the desire to wear heels to work but having the tired feet of a 90 year old woman who’s missing her Dr. Scholl’s inserts. Nope, being poor is its own special kind of soul-crushing,idea-deflating, dream-killing pain in the ass. Indigence is a state of mind.

It’s not just that I live below the poverty line or even the fact that most of the other twenty-somethings I know are also defined by law as working class. I can live with the idea that I’m not the fattest cat on the block. I’m cool with it. If the Wall Street movies have taught us anything, it’s that being rich heightens your propensity toward douchiness. (And also that Michael Douglas looks hot in suspenders.) One minute you’re working hard for your share, and the next minute you’re running red lights in an Audi and sexting somebody on the side. In truth, I don’t actually have any great desire to be wealthy. But I hate – absolutely LOATHE – knowing that my life, my future is limited by money.Or, more accurately, my lack of money. Honestly, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep my dreams alive when my bank statement continuously reads-$20.17 at the end of every month and thus affirms that my dreams have nowhere to go. And let’s face it: I’m not fighting the good fight every day because I just think it’s so neat being single, broke, and without connections. Dreams are what I live on.

I didn't actually appreciate exactly how destitute I was – am – until one Saturday morning of the (incredibly) recent past. I was cooking two allotted eggs in my and the roommate’s one and only pan, the wok my dad bought for me on one of his scavenging trips to the local flea market. (That fact alone should give you a fair amount of context for the remainder of this anecdote.) Anyway, at that point, I’d cooked so many eggs in the wok that the bottom was covered in a thin film of egg residue that wouldn't come off in the dishwasher or by the power of my (not so considerable) elbow grease. I was in the middle of thinking to myself, “Ugh, you’re such a hypocrite.Why couldn't you have gotten the free-range eggs?? You claim to care – ” And then it suddenly hit me.

I CAN’T AFFORD THEM.

Yep, that’s right. The two dollar difference between cheap, dyed, processed eggs birthed by lady chickens so fat they can’t stand on their own legs anymore and the cage-free eggs collected from chickens that had the freedom to run around on their little chicken farms might actually land me in financial ruin. (Which, by the way, is a line I toe on a bi-weekly basis.)

It was in that moment, while the egg residue adhered to the bottom of my (now) wrecked wok that I finally realized the truth of the matter: I can’t actually afford much of anything. Of the $800 a month I earn courtesy of my ever-so-fruitful vocation, half goes to rent and the other half goes to bills, leaving me roughly $40 a month with which to eat and buy gas. So, when I say I’m dirt fucking poor, I’m not actually exaggerating.Eggs could feasibly break the bank.

The rest of my morning followed with me eating my eggs on a microwave-warped Target plate surrounded by the tatters of my dreams and taking inventory of the things I’d more than likely have to forfeit in order to keep myself alive. Hence, the list:

Things I Can’t Afford

1. My cellphone. (Thank God for my sister.)

2. Furniture.The only piece of furniture I've ever purchased is a velvet pea-green chair on wheels from a consignment shop. It was $25.

3. Cable. I watch a lot of religious paid-programming in Hebrew.

4. Groceries.But I've learned that Cream of Mushroom soup and rice don’t taste half bad together.

4. My cats.Every poop is another dollar out of my pocket. (But I don’t give a rat’s ass.I’ll starve.)

5. Driving.Gas is apparently filtered with gold.

6. Men.Therapy is pricey.

7. Taco Bell.

8. A social life. Mixed drinks ain't cheap. And I can only drink so much PBR.

9. Sex. For a number of different reasons. But mostly because birth control costs me $20 a month  Thanks, Far Right.

10. The bohemian lifestyle I dreamed about when I was a kid. It takes dinero to live the life of a busted bluegrass hippie. Drugs aren't free, kids.

And those are just the important things.

What it all comes down to is that being a twenty-something has become so synonymous with being poor that I didn't actually even know I was poor. We’re so conditioned to think that our twenties are going to be this marvelous exploratory time where we backpack across Europe and rent quirkily-decorated lofts and buy Our First Grown Up Things, like cars and appliances and bed frames. And then one day you realize you’re sleeping on your parents’ old mattress (on which you were more than likely conceived) and your driver’s side mirror is held together with electrical tape. You can’t afford to have dreams because you can barely afford to have a life.

It’s that reality – that monetary bitch slap – that makes being a twenty-something one of the weirdest times of your life. Because even though you know that you probably won’t be spending a year sipping coffee in Montmartre and writing your first great novel in your Moleskine notebook, the dream won’t die. And that’s the paradox: we’re all too poor to pay for the cage-free eggs and the social responsibility it represents,but not being able to buy those damn eggs and spare those damn chickens is what propels us. It fuels our rage. It gives us something to push against. It makes our dreams even larger and even brighter and even more mythical. Being poor’s a bitch, but it’s the bitch that gives us a reason.

And every now and then, you catch a break.

(My roommate got a frying pan for Christmas.)

All original content copyright Kimberly Turner, 2013-2013.

Some Girls are Bigger than Others (And Other Things No One Told Me)

Here’s something I’ve been wondering: why is it culturally acceptable to be a complete and total jackass but it’s not okay for a woman to weigh more than an average 8^th grader?

Case in point: Charlie Sheen went batshit crazy after being fired from Two and a Half Men (possibly before) and was rewarded with a comedy tour and a new sitcom; Adele, on the other hand, still gets hassled about her weight, despite the multiple music awards she’s won and the fact that she is probably one of the most talented individuals on the face of the planet. Lena Dunham, star of Girls and Tiny Furniture, is beyond gifted. Literally, her talent knows no end. She’s a writer and an actress, she’s funny as hell, and she’s an Instagram extraordinaire. Yet she still feels the need to point to her fat (and I say that with air quotes) as a point of criticism in her own TV show. Even Mindy Kaling, who graduated from Dartmouth and has since become a star/writer of The Office and The Mindy Project, feels compelled to defend her weight because she has, at some points in time, worn a size 10 jean.

I know. We might as well stone her.

It’s an odd phenomenon in Western culture that I still can’t quite comprehend, particularly since the same standards don’t apply to men. Having said that, PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPONS, BOYS! Let me make my case before you masculinist studies folks pimp slap me about the face with gender stereotypes and allegations of sexism. (Maybe I should also take a moment to state here that I’ve got nothing against men. I have a really cute dad and a brother who punches me and makes fun of me and dances like a diva bitch when inebriated just as any good brother should. And, since I’m going to be talking a good deal about weight, let me also say I respect people of all shapes and size. All God’s creatures and whatnot.)

                                                                                                                                     

So, first let’s consider Jack Black. He's a musically riotous comedian who voices the cutest panda ever to grace the animated screen and is married to Tanya Hayden – a woman so beautiful even I would consider abstaining from male genitalia and absconding with her. However, Jack Black is not only actually married to a knock out, but Hollywood would also have us believe (rightly so) that he’s perfectly capable of attracting Kate Winslet AND Shannyn Sossamon (i.e.The Holiday) despite his fairly rotund figure. Yes, that’s Kate Winslet, whose naked and glorious body most of us will always picture draped in pearls while Leonardo DiCaprio attempts to draw her and simultaneously keep his eyes from bugging out of his skull. And Shannyn Sossamon who was also cast as the love interest opposite of both Josh Hartnett and Heath Ledger (alav hashalom) respectively – two equally beautiful men of rigid jaws and pectorals so hard they could crack walnuts. Don’t get me wrong; Jack Black is just about adorable. Either Kate or Shannyn would be lucky to catch a guy whose accomplishments in life include giving voice to a kung fu-loving bear whose father is, rather suspiciously, a duck. That’s a man for the ages right there.

Oh, and we can’t forget Jason Segel. Who doesn’t love him as Marshal? NO ONE. Everyone loves him. He’s perfect. Every heterosexual girl (and maybe a few of my lesbian and bisexual brethren) knows that Jason Segel is, without a doubt, ridiculously precious. He sings, he writes, he acts – he’s a freaking renaissance man. He single-handedly made the Muppets cool again. Seriously, come on. My pants pretty much dissolve just thinking about it. And, the truth is, no one gives a rat’s ass if he’s milky white and soft around the middle. We all willingly buy him as a reasonable counterpart to Alyson Hannigan’s Lily, Kristen Bell’s Sarah Marshall, Mila Kunis’ Rachel, Amy Adams’ Mary, and Emily Blunt’s Violet. And why? Because he’s smart and funny and handsome and he looks like he could cuddle the lit major angst right out of me. In all fairness, I must admit studio execs did advise him to lose weight in order to play the role of Tom opposite Emily Blunt in The Five-Year Engagement. However, I must also point out that he already had a strong history as a leading man who could conceivably attract gorgeous women and he wrote the damn movie, so I’m assuming he was a shoe-in regardless of the extra tummy love. Plus, in reality, he’s dating Michelle Williams. So there’s that.

Need more proof, you say? Okay: Kevin James got Leah Remini, Bill Cosby bagged Phylicia Rashād, even Phil Griffin (a moron of epic proportions) managed to snag Lois – and he’s a goddamn cartoon. Face the facts, kids: guys of all shapes and sizes can score pretty girls with smarts and humor alone. Except in Phil’s case. Apparently Seth MacFarlane knows some incredibly open-minded women.

My point is, as a culture, we’re willing to accept the notion that some men just happen to be bigger than others, and it doesn't seem to faze us. Of course men are capable of securing partners because their looks (as fraught with social convention as the idea of “looks” may be) are second to brains, wit, brawn, humor, bravery, etc. BUT, the moment lady parts enter the picture, weight suddenly becomes a Big Damn Deal.

Let’s think about this realistically. Could, say, Melissa McCarthy reasonably be cast next to Ryan Gosling? Would America not have a fucking COW at the idea of her climbing into bed at night with the subject of every “Hey Girl” meme floating around Pinterest? As a society, we nearly had conniption fit when she was cast as Molly in Mike & Molly alongside Billy Gardell (also a man of a few extra pounds). Don’t believe me? Think this is just the ranting of a girl who’s eaten one too many bowls of spaghetti in her life? I direct you to "Should 'Fatties' Get a Room? (Even on TV?)" written by Marie Claire’s ever-so-witty Maura Kelly, who stated on the magazine’s blog that she’d find herself "grossed out if I had to watch two characters with rolls and rolls of fat kissing each other." 

Well dear God. 

Imagine if Molly’s fella were a six footer with a body like a Rodin statue. Kelly (and the Marie Claire staff that stood behind her in support) might actually have to give up television altogether. Or at least keep a bowl handy for all the puking they’d be doing. And God knows what would happen if any girl in any American sitcom or movie were to mention the hole that wears in the inside leg of her jeans because her thighs rub together. Because she's a woman. With woman parts. Kelly's poor fluff-filled head might spin right off her shoulders. Because, as we all know, a round woman (or, in this case, any woman with body fat of any sort) is about as sexy as a sea urchin – even when she’s sexing up another “fatty.” 

But what am I thinking? No (good looking) guy in his right mind would want to be with a girl like Melissa McCarthy, right? Especially not since she’s sustained a successful career for 10+ years, won an Emmy, and given birth to two children. That would just be insane. She ought to feel lucky that a fellow "fatty" would deign to fictitiously marry her.  

Am I starting to sound bitter? Eh, I’ll own it. I am bitter. 

As a nearly twenty five year old woman, I can honestly say I very rarely feel pretty. Not in a “I need you to tell me I’m beautiful or I’m going to cry and make everyone uncomfortable” kind of way, but in a “It never occurred to me I might be” way. I learned from an early age (i.e. magazines, books, movies, TV, general pop culture media) that there were some things I couldn't wear without receiving sideways glances, some men I wasn't supposed to date, and some people I just shouldn't presume to hang out with because I simply wasn't pretty enough. Not that I've ever figured out what "enough" actually is. Maybe there’s a scale somewhere I missed on the way to the bread aisle. Maybe this is all some super secret beauty industry plot to bring down competitors (ahem, Dunkin Donuts). Whatever the reason, I've known it as a matter of fact for most – if not all – of my life. I'm not pretty enough. And do you want to know why, ladies and gentleman? Because I've never been small.

(Well, that’s not strictly true. I was born 5 lb. 6 oz. But those were probably the glory days in terms of my waist line.)

This is not a desire for sympathy. I'm not planning to hurl myself from my apartment window (which, from the third floor, wouldn't do much anyway). I like myself. I’m five feet tall, I have fiery red curls, I wear sweet hipster glasses, and I can rock a cardigan better than any librarian you know. But guess what? I’m not a size 2. And that's okay. There’s nothing wrong with being thin, of course. My sister is beautifully tall and svelte. She’s basically a poster for a 1920s jazz club come to life. One of my dearest friends is built like a walking, breathing Barbie, and she’s perfectly lovely (even though I’m so jealous of her legs I want to shank her every time I see her). But, not me. I’ve got the blood of hearty Irish peasant women running through my veins. I was never meant to be a slim girl. I was built to breed and repopulate the earth – and, judging by the size of my hips, I’m working on becoming a one-woman, baby-making USO. Since I started puberty, I haven’t been smaller than 130 lbs (a size 10 for me). That’s not to say I’m not conscious about what I eat or that I don’t exercise. My ass still hurts from the Brazilian Butt Workout video my roommate’s got me doing. (As a side note, I never realized how truly invaluable my ass really was until it hurt to put on pants.) And believe me when I say I sweat with the force of thirty linebackers on my 3-4 weekly cardio sessions. Sure, I like a pasta dish, and I ain’t ever gonna turn down a potato, but it’s not as if I sit around my house shoving my face full of Tastykakes (which is my prerogative if I so desire). My skinny sister, on the other hand, has been known to murder a dozen cupcakes in a single sitting. But she's skinny, and I'm not. Them's the facts; it’s DNA. I simply don’t get small. My body just won't have it, guys. And, for whatever reason, I’m supposed to believe that my genetics are somehow in the wrong.

It’s especially difficult as a twenty-something woman to convince myself that I’m not actually some alien creature my parents plucked out of the black lagoon given that my cultural role models are Kristen Stewart and number of other very hungry looking girls in tiny dresses. I mean, I know the script. I’m supposed to be dating, partying, breaking up, having copious amounts of rigorous sex and looking fabulous in trendy clothes while I do it all. (Well, except perhaps the sex.) But ya know what? I feel ridiculous in trendy clothes. You want to know why? Because they’re made for tiny girls. Now, I realize tiny girls can’t walk around covered solely in the foliage of Biblical lore. They get cold, those skinny minnies. They need threads too. But, really, when will American clothing companies figure out that they can’t put a striped maxi dress on a five foot tall girl with D cups. THEY JUST CAN’T. I end up looking like the world’s shortest parachute. Believe me when I say it’s not cute. Not even a little. Because, in reality, some girls weigh more than others. And I happen to be one of those girls. 

And that’s okay. Because, contrary to popular assumption, women do actually come in a variety of different shapes. Just like men. And the even more astonishing part is that it’s perfectly acceptable for men (and other women, for that matter) to be attracted to skinny girls, to medium girls, and to large girls. Bigger women, smaller women, average women – they’re perfectly normal and beautiful just the way they are.

Now I must ask this: why, as a girl with one completed degree and another one the way, with an assortment of other talents ranging from singing show tunes to rearing the most adorable felines on the planet, with an eclectic taste in film and music, with a heart as big as a grand canyon, should I feel compelled to defend myself because my butt happens to be bigger than Emma Stone’s?

I shouldn’t. Because some girls are bigger than others. 

All original content copyright Kimberly Turner, 2013-2013.

Everybody’s Gotta Be from Somewhere: The Plight of the Small Town Hipster

If you’re from New York, raise your hand. No? What about San Francisco. No? London. Still no? Chicago, Los Angeles, Paris, Detroit, Philadelphia, Rome? WHAT?? No?! Are the census bureaus to be believed? Do people actually dwell in cities and towns other than The Coolest Places on Earth? But…how can this be? Sitcoms, novels, movies, records – have they been leading me astray all this time? Am I to understand there’s life outside of the tourist destinations I’ve read about in those travelogues I hoard for use during those mythically future days When I Have Money?

It’s a shock, I know.

Still, the truth of the matter is people live in places other than major cities. I did. I spent the majority of my life in a small city called Florence in the Pee Dee region of South Carolina. I realize for those of you who don’t live in South Carolina that means jack. But for us South Carolinians, regional alliance is a matter of pride. Not only do accents vary from region to region, but so do college football fans and the taste of barbeque and whether or not you’ll get snow. You know, the important things. Because I’m from the Pee Dee, and particularly Florence, I grew up close enough to the coast to get to the beach in an hour and near enough to North Carolina to get the fuck out of dodge if the need ever arose. (It didn’t. But the option was always available).

Anyway, I clearly didn’t grow up in a big city, surrounded by noisy Italian neighbors and corner stores. My life has never been threatened by wayward street ruffians, I have been going to the same hairdresser my whole life, and my apartment is big enough for two people to live in comfortably without having to accidentally see one another naked. When I was growing up, I lived on a quiet street with a ridiculous number of trees and a veritable plethora of azalea bushes. My parents own a two-story brick house with a green roof and matching green shutters. Their yard is appropriately sized for a small suburban neighborhood, and their grass is perpetually dying because even in the winter, it’s hotter than a half-acre of hell in South Carolina. Even though it’s a decent neighborhood, a drainage ditch runs parallel to the back yard; when I was a kid, my parents never allowed me to hop the fence to go explore the depths of ditch because along with the number of unusual smells wafting from the water pooling at the bottom, there’s invariably always a wayward used needle or two down there. (I told you I wasn’t kidding). This ain’t an episode of Cheers, y’all.

In reality, Florence is probably more Duck Dynasty than True Blood. However, I try to lend the motherland at least a smidge of credit. Think Paula Deen when she was still chubby. That’s Florence.

It’s a strange little town, honestly. Florence forbearers drafted a blueprint for the hamlet in the early 1700s, but nothing truly got kicking until the advent of the railroads a hundred years later. And then, suddenly, it was a hotspot. Well, as much as any place can be a hot spot in South Carolina. To this day, Florence remains the halfway point between New York and Miami. As such, it’s been termed The Magic City. Not because it has any actual affiliation with the original Italian city, mind you, but because you can stop there and get anything your heart desires – sex, drugs, food, money, or Jesus. Jesus in any religious connotation you can possibly imagine. We’ve got him.

What don’t we have, you ask? Restaurants that stay open past 10. Stores that open before 12 on Sundays. Anything remotely attractive to tourists except cheap hotels and an interstate leading to Myrtle Beach. Yep. That’s my town. It’s basically the street-smart, clinically-depressed younger sister of Stars Hallow.

It’s the kind of place that used to be teeny but isn’t anymore. It’s not a metropolis by any means, but it’s hardly the Mayberry of yesteryear. (We have a Super Target now. You can’t deny it. That shit’s legit.) No longer is it acceptable to slow down in the middle of a main thoroughfare to speak to people you recognize, although that’s not stopping some of the Florence blue hairs from doing it anyway. And these days, more than two cars can and do drive on the road at the same time without catastrophe. Unless it’s raining, in which case Florentines suddenly fear for their very lives. Because clearly the liquid falling from the sky is some sort of cosmic molten lava, not water. But I digress.

Florence is a town of divides – rich and poor, black and white, golfers and people who have lives. I grew up in a middle-class white household, although my rearing was decidedly more soulful than other white kids I know. We drank a lot of grape Kool-Aid, and I’ll be damned if I still don’t get down to any Jackson 5 song playing within my earshot. Still, neither of my parents of is from Florence, so as a family, we were constantly outsiders. Until he was twenty four, my dad lived in Johnsonville, a bean hill of a town about an hour away, on a road called Possum Fork. (Yes, you read that right. POSSUM FORK.) Here’s the truly humorous bit, though: my mom was born and raised in Philadelphia. She is basically the human equivalent of an episode of It’s Always Sunny. She’s loud and Irish and at any given moment, her inner monologue is swearing so violently, she’d make an NFL linebacker want to run his ass straight to the nearest confessional. Basically, I was raised in the middle of a geographically-dislocated hot mess amid a chorus of Southern idioms and “JESUS, MARY, AND JOSEPH!”s. It was a situation, guys.

But it’s silly to say I hate Florence. I don’t. I’ve always loved that little town the way you love that cousin who makes awkward jokes about the size of his penis. It’s hard to ignore, it’s a little bit grungy, it’s simultaneously a thorn in the side and the thing I long for the most. Florence, not the metaphorical cousin dick. Growing up in the South, particularly in a smaller town, is its own weird reward. I know everybody, and everybody knows me – even when we don’t want to. And, contrary to popular belief, I’m not busting my ass to leave. I kind of like the weird swamp smell the nearly chokes me out in the summer and the way everyone FREAKS THE FUCK OUT over the mere mention of snow and how people wave to me even if they’ve never seen me before in their entire lives. I’ve never felt deprived.

Florence is in dire need of young blood and some culture; there’s no denying that. But not every small town mirrors of an episode of Buckwild. I can actually read – full length books with developed ideas and multi-syllabic words. And, on top of that, I like to read. I majored in English in college, and I’m about to finish up an MA in Literature. Sometimes, even us country girls get bored with the small town script. Maybe it’s because my dad handed me a John Lennon album when I was a kid and told me it was going to blow my mind – and then showed me how to use a record player. Maybe it’s because my mom made sure I traveled when I was younger or because during the summer she made my siblings and me t-shirts with jazzy fabric glitter and iron-on patches. Maybe it’s because my parents raised me to be a complete nerd. Who knows. All I do know for certain is I have spent the majority of my life and all of my twenties trying hard to look like I shouldn’t be featured in a People of Wal-Mart meme.

One of the most frustrating parts of pop culture, though, is that most of it seems to be happening in some exotic locale where I am not to be found. Every painfully awkward scene of Girls is filmed somewhere on the streets of New York – or at least on a sound stage made to look like the streets of New York. But believe me: girls are being awkward in small towns all across America. I’ve been doing it since 1988. I’m living proof that you don’t need to live in a postage-stamp apartment in Brooklyn to own ill-fitting dresses or have weird sex with a guy who can’t actually remember your last name. And yet, every one of my favorite sitcoms seems to be occurring elsewhere. How I Met Your Mother, Friends, Sex and the City – all set in New York. Hell, even The Big Bang Theory is set in Pasadena, a city made eternally infamous for being the home of Mrs. Robinson and her stockings. And they’re supposed to be nerds, for fuck’s sake.

Think of how many movies take place in New York. Pretty much every Woody Allen film. Except for Midnight in Paris – which doesn’t count because it’s ABOUT PARIS. Nearly all of Nora Ephron’s entire body of cinematic work is comprised of a series of 120-minute love letters to New York, including the best romantic of all time When Harry Met Sally. (There is no room for argument here, by the way. When Harry Met Sally is the epitome of humor, romance, Jewishness, and truly awful hair.) She lived there, made movies there, wrote books there, died there.  

And all of the best music is recorded in Detroit and Portland and London and other places where incredibly cool people gather and form intimidating throngs of talent and irony. Otis Redding wasn’t hanging out on the streets of small town South Carolina, I can assure you of that. Ah ha, you say! Eartha Kitt was born in North, SC! To which I say, even she left to go find herself in France. (Although, as an aside, Florence can claim Maurice Williams and the Zodiacs. They come back every year to sing at the Pecan Festival – because, yes, we have festivals honoring our most popular hickory nuts.)

Now I ask you: how am I ever supposed to become a cool straw hat-wearing hipster bumping my MGMT mixes in my Prius when no one is there to witness all of that awesome in action? And, you know, since I drive an Ion. But that’s just details. The point is popular culture has all but forgotten the twenty-somethings trying to make lives for themselves in places like Florence. Not all of us want to get married and spawn right away. Some of us are well-informed, well-educated culture vultures. Where’s the love Hollywood??

Because, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from pop culture, cool things aren’t happening in any town near me. Or you. Unless you do happen to be one of those ironically talented intimidating people living in one of the aforementioned cool places.

 In which case, let’s hang out? 

All original content copyright Kimberly Turner, 2013-2013.

The Right Side of Crazy

Here’s the thing about your twenties: they suck.

 Not it sucks. They suck. Your twenties don’t just suck as a decade. Every single year in your twenties sucks in a new and different way. Ways that will make you doubt the notion that your life has to improve at some point because you will, in fact, be forced to throw yourself from a bridge otherwise. Or, in the case of the Putnam County barnyard town I live in, trip off the gangplank crossing over a needle-infested shallow creek.

Okay. Maybe it’s not that bad.

But, suffice it to say, your twenties really do suck. Although I didn’t make up the intravenous needle part. I live in a weird place.

As a teenager, you spend a heap load of time thinking about college – how smart you need to be to get there, which ones are worth your (parents’) money, how cool you’ll look drinking coffee in the campus café, whether or not you’ll finally lose your virginity. (Well, perhaps that was just me.) The future seems all glittery and hazy and inevitable.  You have some quasi-plausible life planned out in which you’re wealthy and educated and all of your pants are perfectly pleated. When you’re that far away, everything looks perfect. But let’s be real: the devil’s in the details.

The whole situation is even worse if you happen to have been born a girl. For whatever reason, American culture prepares girls to live a twenty-something life born of Prada bags and cucumber wraps. Apparently, the moment you hit twenty, you become ultra-chic and infinitely more interesting. If sitcoms and romantic comedies are right, you’ll suddenly start wearing smart slacks and all your jewelry will match. Let me stop you right here: that’s a total lie.

Being a twenty-something woman is a far more complicated business. In those ten years, a number of adult-like things will happen to you, and you will have no real understanding of exactly how you should handle said things. People get married, people break up, people have babies, people die, you lose a job, you get a job, you find out your boyfriend is gay. It happens. You finally realize, somewhere in those years, it may be tremendously fun to throw all-nighters in your shoebox-sized apartment and watch as glittered confetti falls through the air just for the hell of it, but eventually it lands. And somebody’s got to vacuum. As a rule of thumb, this will be the point when you realize you only have access to a mop.

No one really prepares you for the weirdness of your twenties – the way life suddenly stops making sense and your views on everything from deodorant to gun control undergo a massive shift. No one sits you down when you’re nineteen and says, “Listen, sparky, the shit’s about to get really fucking strange. Hang in there, soldier.” Instead, being in your twenties is something akin to being stuck in the middle of a perpetual earthquake; you can’t really do anything but watch as your hand-crafted string art shakes off the wall. You won’t have an evacuation plan ready for the moment you realize being a twenty-something is, more often than not, really awkward because NO ONE TELLS YOU.

In all actuality though, that’s probably a good thing. Who among us would willingly march headfirst into that most agonizing decade armed with little more than six years of abstinence-only education and How I Met Your Mother reruns? Luckily, our culture doesn’t prepare us for the sheer ridiculousness to come in those ten years following our teens. Because, when you do finally realize that you are not likely to end up hanging out in the local bar with your friends every night until 3 AM looking like a J. Crew model, the desire to be a twenty-something quickly evaporates. Who wants to be poor, unsteady, and confused? No one sane, that’s for damn sure.

I realize this all sounds dire. The truth is it feels dire sometimes. Most days in my twenties have been marked by my complete lack of interest in the daily routines of my life. Hygiene? Optional. Leaving my couch? Not applicable. Work? Well, okay. I do really like to eat. That ridiculously expensive gourmet mustard I have to spread on my turkey sandwiches isn’t just going to appear in my mailbox – which I hardly ever check anyway since my twenties have also been hallmarked by junk mail. Truly, Capital One, if I didn’t answer you the first time, chances are I’m not going to answer you the second time. Spare the o-zone layer and leave that tree alone.

BUT, don’t worry. I know, I know. Now that I’ve told you how awful your twenties really are, don’t worry?? Bitch. Seriously, though. Don’t throw it all away just yet.

To be honest, I don’t always feel like I’m lost in the pages of an on-going Phyllis Reynolds Naylor novel. There are usually some very nice people along the way who are sympathetic to the plight of the miserable first world twenty-something to give you pointers and a pair of clean underwear. Plus, even when I do feel completely bewildered, some of the wandering isn’t so terrible. I’ve met some of the most fantastic people I’ve ever known or will ever know during my twenties. I’ve been in school for the better part of the decade, and it’s perfectly acceptable. I’m a student. I’m acquiring knowledge for…whatever is I’m going to do with my future. Relatively speaking, my body is functioning at top notch (although my liver has taken a considerable beating). No one questions me if I get silly tattoos or wear heels just a little too slutty for work or if I rock a Hello Kitty headband every now and then. I can decide to change my bathroom shower curtain on a whim with no complaints. Well, minimal complaints. My felines are exceedingly OCD.

The point is I can. It’s one of the perks of being a twenty-something with little more to my name than the apartment I can barely afford and a rare used-bookstore copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn: I can go searching. My life, the life of any twenty-something with a modicum of self-awareness, is a wide open space. Sure, there are lots of paths to choose from, some bright and well-lit and some that look as if they may or may not be hosting a colony of Ted Bundy-esque serial murders. And sure, on more than one occasion I’ve been the token white girl with a flashlight and a low cut t-shirt who falls over a tree stump just as the deranged mass murderer pops out of the brush with his blood-soaked machete. But, the beauty of all this mixed-up twentyness is that I can be that clumsy, albeit dumb, youth. I can because I’m in my twenties and I’m allowed to fuck up.

So maybe I don’t do everything effortlessly. Honestly, I will probably always be the girl who carries a flashlight in a desolate corn field when I should be the next road over picking wild flowers or having relations with vampires or whatever it is girls do in in abandoned fields when they aren’t being chased by one of the seemingly inordinate number of crazed killers on the loose.

And maybe I’ve definitely executed some questionable moral decisions. There’s a whole sub-section of my twenties I’ve termed The Rum Diaries. (Mind you, my liver hasn’t quit on me yet, so I’m just going to assume this blessed trend is meant to continue.) 

Maybe I’m not living in New York, frequenting the best art museums, drinking the finest coffee, wearing the trendiest clothes, writing the next profound works of American literature. But I’m here and I’m young and I can.

All original content copyright Kimberly Turner, 2013-2013].