Teenagers. I hate them. I utterly, honestly, with a passion, downright hate them.
While out searching for a nice birthday card for bestest friend Zannie earlier (she’s 21, happy birthday my dear!), I was forced to pass a group of neanderthal hormonal ‘chicks’ and ‘dudes’ of the spotty adolescent type. This terrifies me. I go out of my way to stay as far away as humanly possibly from teenagers. Always. They are revolting things.
As I approached the motley looking crew (after fearfully and unsuccessfully scanning the area for any other route just to avoid them), I took in the standard adolescent giveaways. Four boys and four girls, acne ridden and decked out in the latest sportswear, the boys were either wearing caps at 90 degree angles to their scalps or had skin-heads. The girls were shamelessly flirting, aided by their tight, tight, low rise jeans and although it’s almost November and we’re in
There was a lone girl walking just ahead of me, she was perhaps 18 or 19, and I wondered if her insides were being churned up in the anticipation of passing the minging teens like mine were. As she walked by the group, one of the spotty girls wearing the tightest top and the tightest jeans followed the lone girl a few yards along the road, walking like someone with a serious swagger, in a pure lame attempt, I guess, to imitate the girl.
I groaned inwardly. Does she think that’s funny? Why? It’s not at all funny in the slightest. And more importantly, is she going to do that to me when I pass?
She did not. Luckily. She was too busy cackling loudly with her cronies to pay any attention to me.
In a very roundabout way, my point is…who would be a teenager?!
For me, teenagedom was filled with confusion, despair, anger and desperation. I didn’t have the foggiest idea of who I was, or who I wanted to be. Nevertheless, I thought I was it. I really thought I was an adult and that I knew everything.
I conformed to the standard Weegie teen; I was surly, surly, surly, used the ‘f’ word as frequently as full stops, changed my accent to a strong Glaswegian dialect in order to fit in with the toughies, I never went anywhere alone in fear of being viewed as a Norma-No-Mates, I used a trowel to apply layers and layers of orange make-up (“You could dig a trench with a fingernail with a’ that foundation on!”), and spent as little time with my family as possible. In fact, I was rather angry with my parents, because they were middle-class. I wished they wore Addidas tracksuits and were unemployed and on the dole. It was ridiculous they didn't smoke and drink beer...they were so uncool...I simply had to be adopted. I found it terribly shameful that a man who actually wore a shirt and tie was my father, and the fact my Mum was a teacher lost me any extra credits on the cool scale.
At school, the sexual hormones were flying all over the joint. There was nothing that couldn’t be interpreted as something sexual. “Can I use your pencil?” somehow became “Can I play with your zizi?” and everyday the banana my mum put in my lunch bag was hidden in fear that if I actually ate it in public I’d be laughed at for looking like I was giving it a blow job. Zannie’s egg mayo sandwich was likened to female discharge and she has never eaten mayonnaise since.
Classes would be spent trying desperately to be the loudest, funniest, smart aleck class clown, sitting at the back and taking the total rip out of the poor teacher. The thing was, even if you happened to like the teacher, you would never admit it – never! That would just get you a reputation as a pathetic geek. In French and German classes the dictionaries would be out and dirty words would be learned; the only vocab that stuck in our minds. Notes would be passed around; “Look at Sarah’s shoes – they look like my Gran’s!” and “that bitch Rachel looked at me wrong, I’m gonna pull her up about it”.
And don’t get me started on dating. I mean, Janey Macaroni! You’d never be asked out by the guy himself. Somehow it would get passed around until finally you hear from the guy’s friend’s wee brother’s friend’s sister’s best friend’s dog’s brother that he likes you and wants to meet you in the park at lunchtime for a ‘nip’ or a ‘winch’ (hideous Weegie slang for a passionate kiss). A crowd of you and your girlfriends would head down to the local park where he and his spotty friends would wait. It would then take about half an hour before one of your friends would walk up to one of his friends to initiate something, or you would be pushed through the crowd and, without having ever said a single word to each other, he’d lunge at you with a tongue the size of a spade.
I do love to moan about how old I am now that I’m 21, and I’m no teenager now, and no spring chicken, but really, deep down, secretly, I’m so very glad. Because let’s face it, who wants to be a teenager?!