I’ve always hated the expression “Shit happens”. It just seems like a defeatist attitude. Yeah, bad stuff happens, but if you do the right thing, you can avoid a lot of it.
I basically never get in trouble. I’m a good kid. I've never drunk alcohol or smoked anything or snuck out of my house or lied to my parents or had sex or whatever other people my age always get in trouble for. I've read books about kids who do that stuff. They don’t usually end up better for it, either. Or if they do, it’s because they have this big revelation about what they are really meant to do, or that life isn’t perfect, or something like that.
And I think, I can figure that stuff out without being a bad kid, right?
And I think, I don’t even want to do bad stuff. It only leads to worse stuff.
And in those books, and in movies like those books, there’s always that one person the main character won’t stop thinking about, even when there are other perfectly good options around them.
You know, that person that you think about when you want to think about something far away, when you want to not really think hard, when you want to just pretend.
Let’s call mine Tigger. Just to make things a little more interesting.
So, I’ve been friends with Tigger for a while, but we’ve been very different for a while too. I always try to be a good girl, do what I’m supposed to, when I’m supposed to. Tigger likes to make trouble. Not bad trouble, but still trouble. Tattoos, smoking, facial piercings.
When asked his after school activities, ‘detention’ is the first item on his list.
And it’s not what you’d think. I don’t like bad boys. It isn’t because of his shenanigans that I like him, it’s despite of them. (Although, to be honest, they can be kind of hilarious.)
He is also the sweetest, cutest, most charming and caring guy I’ve known.
But, let’s get back on track. So Tigger and I started talking more. Then we started “talking” more, which is like when you’re about to date someone, but can’t actually call him your boyfriend, or change your status on Facebook yet. Then we began actually dating.
And I wondered about the differences between us. Did it bother him that I was so innocent? Did it matter that he smoked, and I didn’t? Did it make a difference that our ideas about what is okay and not okay seemed so far apart?
(A side note: another good thing about Tigger, he would never pressure me into anything. If I didn’t want a piece of gum, he wouldn’t ask me again. You know, for example.)
But it really didn’t seem to matter. When we hung out with his friends, they would talk about things I didn’t understand, and I would feel kind of stupid. A little out of place. Some sex jokes I didn’t get, or a drug reference that went right over my head. I always laughed, because it’s a safe response. It tells the person that you’re comfortable enough, and it gives them a confidence boost. Everyone wins. Other than that, though, it wasn’t a big deal at all.
One time, we went to the supermarket with two of his friends, and they went inside, while we waited in the parking lot. I leaned my seat back, and so did he. We were far enough down that the people walking by wouldn’t see us. It felt like we were a million miles away, all by ourselves.
His car had a moon roof, and I could see the ice from on top of his car. I outlined the melting ice with my finger, leaving a trail where my finger wiped away the condensation. I did it carefully, making sure I got each piece, just the way it was shaped.
I stopped when I couldn’t reach, and Tigger picked up where I left off. Moving quickly and confidently, he outlined the ice on his side of the glass. It was messier than my side. I almost teased him about it, but I stopped myself.
Instead, I grabbed his hand, both of us holding on, with one cold finger.
As I stared at the melting ice above me, listening to music without words on the radio, holding hands with the person I’d always imagined holding hands with, I thought. I thought because it was one of those moments that feel wasted if you don’t think about something important. Something that would impress a teacher; something so insightful you could write a book about.
But instead of trying to impress anyone, I thought about the ice. Our outlines were different--one careful and thorough, the other swift and easy--but the ice still melted away from it the same way. After a minute, you had no way of knowing how accurate each trail had been. The ice made new outlines. And no matter how many times I outlined them, they would keep making new outlines.
I was on the brink of a revelation, when there was a knock on the window, and his friends were back in the car. We pulled our seats up.
But I can’t stop thinking.
I’d been thrown into a group of people, who do things I’m embarrassed to talk about, and they don’t judge me for it. They don’t try to make me do anything, or try to tell me how cool it is, or anything.
Shit happens.
Ice melts.
And the funny part is, when you let something be what it is, you allow yourself to be what you are too. It allowed me to not be afraid to be a teenager, to make mistakes, to be awkward and clumsy and cute and witty. I don't always have to have the right answer, or keep my hair perfectly in order.
Not do bad things, necessarily, but not always do the right thing either.
Tigger introduced me to a world I was afraid to enter. One it’s taken me long enough to get to. I’m almost eighteen years old, and I’m finally becoming a teenager.
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