You know what's annoying as hell?
I'm in a short skirt mood --bouncy, bubbly, DANCEY, and flirty.1
And it's -if not fucking freezing- really damn cold outside. There is so not a chance, and I *so* don't feel like being cooped up in my room right now.
***
Of course, there's this one other problem with the situation --I am not a short skirt person. Or really, not meant to be. The Sorcyress does not put on a short skirt and heels that make her legs go up to there and bounce her way around the room. I still pause when I realize I'm being -specifically- sexy.
I'm largely comfortable with who, and how unfuckingcredibly hot, I am, but still. Every once in a while, this little whimpering fifteen year old self pokes me in the arm and thrashes about and eventually manages to sputter some variation on "Christ, WHY?!" She winces at the five inch heels and the four inch heels, and the three inch heels, and yes, even at the two inches on my boots. "Converses?" she whispers faintly, holding them out as if she knows I won't take them.
The blush at the sight of my skirt is enough to make me giggle at her. "Oh sweetie, I have it on very good authority that this is not nearly as dangerously short as you claim." "You mean you've let people SEE you in that?!
She shoos me out, and I change, slithering into a flighty little sundress. "Um, bra?" "Why, it's not like I'm planning to wear it for long!" Her shriek of horror (a bit like Alys sounds, I note) is completely worth the lie.
A casual black dress. "That needs a shirt!" she insists, as she sees the dangerous plunge of the neckline. And, at the missing buttons, "And pants." I pull on a pair of black jeans, sure, red and black is overdone, but then again, it's a good combination. I frown at my reflection, and change into a different pair of jeans.
"What was wrong with the first, then?"
"Not tight enough."
My fifteen year old self visibly breaks. "Not...tight...enough?"
"That's what she said! OH!" At her scowl, "Er...sorry. Couldn't resist."
At this, she of course launches into an angry diatribe about how there are far too many things that my tawdry self can't seem to resist, and how all the boys are going to think I'm a slut. She does not appreciate my laughing gaily2 at her word choice. She *really* doesn't appreciate it when I point out the copy of 'The Ethical Slut' on my reading list to explain.
I toss a t-shirt and a bra into my bag for tomorrow, and go dig out the eight bit skull Chucks. She relaxes as I lace them, perhaps even smiles. The sight of a book in my bag, and my ipod synced to be bouncy makes the smile definite.
And then she actually looks at the bag. And at the clock. At the toothbrush and pills and homework and games and clothing and computer and pony.
"Where are you going?"
Laughing at my fifteen year old self would probably be cruel. I should give her a few months, let her have her heart broken, break a heart or two. Discover the poly thing, and maybe even get it. At least let her remeet the relevant parties.
"You don't want to know."
"Where are you going?"
"Trust me."
"I think I have a right to know."
"You're just gonna get pissed."
"Oh?"
(Always a loaded word, that oh. I use it a lot, because it can be interpreted so many different ways.)
"Yeah, probably."
"How far we fall."
"Oh come on. Like you wouldn't..."
I realize what I'm saying, and shrug. Another year, another boy, and maybe. Right now? She wouldn't. Ever. Kid's got spunk, you have to admire that, at least. And she's as stubborn as I ever can be. Kissing's a foreign concept, for Athe's sake. She likes cuddling, sure, but the idea of lying in bed all night, curled up with a boy she loves, who loves her?
"Can you at least tell me who?" She is very quiet, sad. I wince --I like who I am, but it is so very very far from who I was going to be sometimes.
"You don't know..." She does know him, in her own strange way. "If I told you, you'd wet yourself, I swear." Her confused look reminds me that she's still three and a half years from ever hearing the song Oasis. "Just...wait. It's better that way."
"Maybe it's better my way."
I sigh. "Maybe."
She sees my fidget, a sideways glance at my bag. "He's waiting for you?"
"Yeah, kinda."
"Go." Is all she says. There is sadness in her face --not for me, but for herself. So, I guess, for me.
There's so much I want to say --how to be good, who to be good to. Reassure her. Warn her about October of her Junior year, all the little mistakes she's gonna make. But more importantly, tell her to keep hope. There's good coming up, and as far as I'm concerned, she does almost everything right.
"Hey kid?"
She's staring at the skirt I was prancing about in earlier, but I know she's listening. I can listen sometimes.
"You're fantastic."
Again, too young to catch the reference. But the words still have power, and she smiles wanly. She looks at me, actually and truly at me, for the first time.
"Thanks. I suspect you are too."
~Sorceress (circa February 2005, 15 years of age)
~Sorcyress (circa February 2009, 19 years of age)
MOOP!
1: Go listen to the song "Around the World" by ATC. Now, this may be tricky if you're not a Conservatory regular, but picture dancing to it --mixing together one-step, polka, swing, and just enough of the general club dancing thing to keep it fun.
That is exactly my damn mood right now. I want to dance, I want to bounce, and I want to be the center of damn attention.
2: Gaily is a legitimate word, I love it, I love what it means and what it summons, and it has nothing to do with homosexuality. I know that it's gonna be impossible to take back the word gay itself, but to do things gaily implies a lightness that I adore.
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