Pretty in Plaid: A Life, a Witch, and a Wardrobe, or the Wonder Years Before the Condescending, Egomaniacal Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase by Jen Lancaster Page B
Authors: Jen Lancaster
Tags: Humor, Literary, General, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, Literary Criticism, Girls, American, Biography, Essay/s, Authors; American, Art, Form, 21st Century, Fashion, Jeanne, Clothing and dress
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believe it.” How can this be? I wonder. I didn’t see any of the signs!
Curtis nods. “Believe it.” Steph appears to be crestfallen. “Is this a huge shock to you?” he asks, placing his hand over hers.
“You mean . . . you’re not secretly in love with me and you weren’t waiting to get me alone in Europe to make a pass at me?” Steph wails.
He shudders. “Jesus, no.”
“Oh. Will you still go to prom with me?” She sniffs.
“Couldn’t stop me.”
Steph gives him a wan smile and then chugs her entire glass of wine. Then she holds the glass up and waves it at the bartender. Fortunately, he’s fluent in the international language of disappointment and begins to open another bottle of wine.
Meanwhile, lightbulbs begin to go off over my head. “No wonder Tom didn’t want to go barhopping with us. He’s gay, too?”
“Nope. He’s not playing for my team.”
“Then what’s his problem?” I ask.
Curtis grins. “He’s just a huge nerd.”
Sandy sits heavily back down into her chair. “Now what?”
“Girl,” he says, motioning for the bartender, “now we drink.”
We spend the evening doing just what I’d imagined I’d do in a German beer hall—linking arms with gorgeous European boys and belting out songs. But instead of singing folk songs, we shout our way through all the American music on the jukebox. You know what? Everyone speaks Madonna. None of us gets a date (except for Curtis), and that’s okay. We dance and laugh and drink sour beer and bitter wine and choke while trying to smoke filter-less German cigarettes. 65
After Curtis’s confession, we all get a lot more real with each other. We open up and share the kind of confidences we couldn’t admit to our friends at home. I feel like for the first time I see who I am inside, and realize I’m more than just a collection of artfully blended eye shadow and neatly trimmed bangs and skinny jeans.
The rest of the trip passes in a similarly alcohol- and pastry-fueled unchaperoned haze. I climb the Eiffel Tower—there’s more vomit on the observation deck than I might have imagined. I see the Mona Lisa —it’s smaller than I thought. I narrowly avoid eating horsemeat, but I make up for it by wolfing down a dozen éclairs. I am summarily mocked by a border guard in Luxembourg. Apparently, I’m wrong. It is a country or at least the guard seemed to think so. I struggle to explain to a French pharmacist that my friend needs to buy mini-pads because she has a “red river in her pants.” And I learn that my French is fantastic after six glasses of champagne.
I never do have my big European romance. But in the course of opening my mind to new possibilities, I figure out there’s someone I really like and that person’s been there the entire time and I never even noticed.
Wanna know who it is?
It’s me . I found out that I really like me .
I’m sitting on the plane bound for New York and all of the kids on my tour are passed out in the seats around me. We had a huge all-night party in the hotel on our final day in Belgium. We even convinced Tom and Brian to drink a bottle of Stella Artois with us! They both practically gagged when they took their first sips and then asked for water, but hey, it’s a start.
I should be sleeping right now, but I can’t. My pants are too tight. And these aren’t my jeans; they’re my khakis. Every pair I packed seems to be a little smaller. Somehow all the cheese and wine and croissants with extra butter have had an effect on my waistline. Living the high life? Has its price. When I get home, I’m probably going to have to retire my Jordache jeans for good.
But that’s okay. Being on this trip has given me more confidence, like, real confidence and not just the kind that comes from perfectly feathered bangs.
And you know what?
I bet maybe, just maybe the world won’t end if I go out with a sophomore.
Clipped Wings
(Pfft, Who Cares Because I May as Well Be in Prison
Curtis nods. “Believe it.” Steph appears to be crestfallen. “Is this a huge shock to you?” he asks, placing his hand over hers.
“You mean . . . you’re not secretly in love with me and you weren’t waiting to get me alone in Europe to make a pass at me?” Steph wails.
He shudders. “Jesus, no.”
“Oh. Will you still go to prom with me?” She sniffs.
“Couldn’t stop me.”
Steph gives him a wan smile and then chugs her entire glass of wine. Then she holds the glass up and waves it at the bartender. Fortunately, he’s fluent in the international language of disappointment and begins to open another bottle of wine.
Meanwhile, lightbulbs begin to go off over my head. “No wonder Tom didn’t want to go barhopping with us. He’s gay, too?”
“Nope. He’s not playing for my team.”
“Then what’s his problem?” I ask.
Curtis grins. “He’s just a huge nerd.”
Sandy sits heavily back down into her chair. “Now what?”
“Girl,” he says, motioning for the bartender, “now we drink.”
We spend the evening doing just what I’d imagined I’d do in a German beer hall—linking arms with gorgeous European boys and belting out songs. But instead of singing folk songs, we shout our way through all the American music on the jukebox. You know what? Everyone speaks Madonna. None of us gets a date (except for Curtis), and that’s okay. We dance and laugh and drink sour beer and bitter wine and choke while trying to smoke filter-less German cigarettes. 65
After Curtis’s confession, we all get a lot more real with each other. We open up and share the kind of confidences we couldn’t admit to our friends at home. I feel like for the first time I see who I am inside, and realize I’m more than just a collection of artfully blended eye shadow and neatly trimmed bangs and skinny jeans.
The rest of the trip passes in a similarly alcohol- and pastry-fueled unchaperoned haze. I climb the Eiffel Tower—there’s more vomit on the observation deck than I might have imagined. I see the Mona Lisa —it’s smaller than I thought. I narrowly avoid eating horsemeat, but I make up for it by wolfing down a dozen éclairs. I am summarily mocked by a border guard in Luxembourg. Apparently, I’m wrong. It is a country or at least the guard seemed to think so. I struggle to explain to a French pharmacist that my friend needs to buy mini-pads because she has a “red river in her pants.” And I learn that my French is fantastic after six glasses of champagne.
I never do have my big European romance. But in the course of opening my mind to new possibilities, I figure out there’s someone I really like and that person’s been there the entire time and I never even noticed.
Wanna know who it is?
It’s me . I found out that I really like me .
I’m sitting on the plane bound for New York and all of the kids on my tour are passed out in the seats around me. We had a huge all-night party in the hotel on our final day in Belgium. We even convinced Tom and Brian to drink a bottle of Stella Artois with us! They both practically gagged when they took their first sips and then asked for water, but hey, it’s a start.
I should be sleeping right now, but I can’t. My pants are too tight. And these aren’t my jeans; they’re my khakis. Every pair I packed seems to be a little smaller. Somehow all the cheese and wine and croissants with extra butter have had an effect on my waistline. Living the high life? Has its price. When I get home, I’m probably going to have to retire my Jordache jeans for good.
But that’s okay. Being on this trip has given me more confidence, like, real confidence and not just the kind that comes from perfectly feathered bangs.
And you know what?
I bet maybe, just maybe the world won’t end if I go out with a sophomore.
Clipped Wings
(Pfft, Who Cares Because I May as Well Be in Prison
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