Thursday, October 9, 2008
Somehow, it never occurred to me that body hair might transform seemingly awesome young people into angry minions of evil. Damn you, Dr. Sears, you left out all of the good stuff. It'd be unlike me if I didn't make a big deal of The Tyranny of the Teenage Years. I'm keeping consistent with the theme of my first lament, The Perils of Puberty. Other editions include: The Labors of Labor and, I Know Why Mama Hamster Ate The Babies.
Yes, Puberty Man has fallen in a toxic tub of Salicylic Acid and has developed an alter ego. Not quite as lascivious and self-absorbed, but twice as morose and exponentially more annoying. As I type this, Anju, who has just taken on the incumbent role of Favorite Son has just vomited on the freshly vacuumed carpet. Sighs and looks up to the heavens. I feel like Job.
No one talks about parenting teenagers. As I peruse blogs, I see chubby little cherubs covered in spaghetti, frolicking about the world with dimples in their cheeks and tiny fingers. Everything is new and bright and gay! What about the rest of us? Surely, ridiculous fashion sense, the ubiquitous scraggly catfish moustache and acne are blog-worthy Kodak moments, no?
I guess I find it difficult to accept the fact that Favorite Guy and I are suffering alone. Or maybe we're just on the receiving end of some bad karma for "asking too many questions", setting rules, and actually following through on the consequences of breaking said rules. Harrumph! The nerve! I bet we'll know better next time. You know, that is of course if we're privileged enough. Do you think? Will we get a next time to be the parents that the omniscient Lord of Melancholy Marauding ordered with his fries and shake?
Wish me peace.
at 11:39 AM