you are viewing archives from 2005

adult is a four letter word?

Last Wednesday evening, I had the pleasure of attending a screening of a film produced by my manager, Jon Karas, (I'm a little clueless as how I got listed there, as that's probably a tenth of his client list and I'm not exactly list-able, as it where), called Checking Out. It's a gem of a picture that's been riding the Festival Circuit.

A. asked me, as we got ready to go dress-up or not? It's a screening, not a premiere, I told him, but you always look nice so don't sweat it. We hopped in my car and were off.

The foyer was teeming with people, but I followed the sound of Older SlackBrother J.'s voice (we Bargiels are a loud sort. We can't help it.) and discovered that he was talking to one of my favorite people in the Universe, a woman named E. who had been the Production Designer on Lizzie McGuire. It turned out that she had worked her magic on Checking Out as well.

E. is one of those people who I'm not close friends with; in fact, I don't know if I'd hazard to say we're friends at all. I don't have her phone number, nor her email. We don't hang out. But she's one of those people who make my blood pressure drop on sight. She's the person that I've always wanted to be: classy yet approachable and isn't averse to saying fuck. She's genuine and smart and incredibly good at her job. E. can take a hundred dollars and make you a carbon copy of the Oval Office. The designers on Trading Spaces have nothing on her. She also has that ageless, effortless beauty that just radiates. In a word, she just rocks.

J. was showing her a picture of SlackNiece J. E. smiled and said she looks just like your sister! I tapped her and said you mean this one?

She looked at me, confused. And then she got it.

You look so different! she exclaimed as we hugged.

I told her that it had been a few years, and between the haircut and the jaw surgery, people didn't recognize me.

She looked at me and said It's not that. No.

She paused.

And then she said ...you look like an adult.

I tried to take it like the compliment that it was intended. When I worked on Lizzie, even though I was fifteen pounds lighter, my face was still edged with baby fat that wouldn’t go away. Post jaw surgery, my face has lost its roundness; I have cheekbones and an angular set to profile.

My wardrobe at the time consisted of jeans, boots, and tiny little t-shirts – a stark contrast to the cropped pants, black low cut shirt and heels that I was wearing that evening. Instead of the ever-present pigtails of a few years back, my hair is cut into an actual style (but takes much less time to do, figure that one out.)

But I have to admit, part of me was thinking shit, I look like a grown-up.

I’ve documented in these pages more than once that I have no desire to be a mature adult. I don’t want to have children, I don’t want to have responsibility, and right now the only attractive part about getting married is the party and the presents. Every day I read or hear or see how the pressures of being responsible pile up on a person, making them feel trapped, or scared, or hopeless. None of this appeals to me.

Of course, I’m aware that there’s more to getting-married-having-kids than I’ve outlined above. Nothing gives me more pleasure than to see SlackNiece J. squeal with delight when she sees me. It’s just that I realize that those squeals of delight are tempered with many sleepless nights. Why have my own when I can help out with SlackNiece or my SlackNephew (A.’s sister’s son)?

I still haven’t figured out if there’s more to marriage than a binding contract. A woman I know online says that marriage signifies to the world that you’re committed to each other. I understand the concept, but I don’t think I need the world to weigh in on A.’s and my commitment. I read in some crappy women’s magazine that married men are much less likely to stray. If someone’s going to cheat, they’re going to cheat. A piece of paper and a band of platinum aren’t going to get in the way of the penis when it’s on a mission.

I’m not bagging on anyone else’s choices; because that’s what they are – a choice. Thousands of people read this column, but I’d still hazard the guess that few of you were forced into marriage with a gun at your head. You might have felt it, sure. The date was set and the flowers were ordered and the invitations went out. It would have been wholly inconvenient and expensive to stop it. But no one forced you.

Occasionally I get email that reads you’re so lucky. You have it all. I always say thank you (SlackMom raised me to be polite!) but the fact that I lead the live I do is by no accident. My life is a deliberate choice, from the person I date to the dog I have to the career I pursued. Yes, luck absolutely came into play – and still does – but if the effort isn’t there to back it up, luck means nothing.

My current choice is to stave off adulthood as long as I can. Sure, it’s not totally doable. I still have a dog and a car payment and a boyfriend. I make responsible choices when it comes to them. I try to learn from experience and not make the same mistakes twice, and share that gleaned wisdom with others. (Although this supposedly mature attribute doesn’t seem to be all that common.) I show up on time and do my job and try to make everyone else’s life a little easier.

So I may look like an adult. I pass through the public looking together and responsible. I write checks and grocery shop and chat up business with people that I see at screenings.

But then I come home, put on my pajamas, and play World of Warcraft.

It’s a tough job. But someone’s got to do it.