Rites of Passage

OK, so it's about a week on and things are going well. It's mostly been admin; getting dates in the diary, planning things etc. These dates are for exciting things like interviews and workshops. So watch this space. Alongside this I am writing, what is odd for me is that everything I'm writing at the moment is really. serious. Which is not like me. I fall back on humour for absolutely everything, yet with this, it's just not happening. The show I am currently writing is not one I would necessarily want to go to, which is kind of awkward because I have to be there. I'm sure it will work itself out. Anyway I wanted to share something I wrote the other day about rites of passage, i've been thinking about it a lot; mainly within the context of young men but I naturally come back to myself. I don't know if this will make the final thing. But here it is.

There comes a certain point in your life as a young woman when the men who knew you growing up decide you are officially old enough to flirt with.

If god has any mercy he will wait till you are in your mid twenties where you can recognise and handle this kind of attention.

Unfortunately, this is often not the case. Your mother will look on sympathetically, she will view the proceedings in full understanding of what is taking place. The glance, the wink, the lean in. The musk of red wine and fruit cake with delicate undertones of communion wafer.
She will see the terrified grin frozen on your face, unable to smile politely and unwilling to frown because he is a kindly old gentlemen whose labrador you were so fond of growing up. Your mother will not say a word, because this is the rite of passage of all young women. She undeniably empathises, in fact she is probably being transported herself to an office somewhere without air conditioning, a desk, papers…

As her mother went before her it is our lot, he’s harmless, just having a little joke and look! He’s treating you like an adult. How you have grown.

The problem is, aside from the obvious. Is it’s not like someone swaps the massive sign around your neck that says CHILD to YOUNG WOMAN or FINE BIT OF FILLY therefore informing absolutely everyone at the same time of your change in status. If this were the case you could get all the lurid jokes and winks done in one fell swoop, invite every adult man who ever knew you to a party where you stand on a table and let them all ceremoniously circle wank around you. Mazletov! as your tearful parents shower you in tampons and copies of Cosmo.

No, unfortunately this awakening will take place as an individual event for each of these uncles, pastors, teachers, employers and friends of parents. This is a practical constraint purely to the fact that my family doesn’t send out christmas emails, you know the kind americans do where people brag to distant cousins about how happy, successful and thin their children are. It would have been so simple “In other news our oldest Phoebe has sprouted in her nether regions and now owns her first mascara." It’s open season now chaps, let’s all welcome her into the real world with a smack on the arse and the promise of a boozy, lingering kiss this christmas.