When I was twelve years old, I was convinced that at birth I'd been taken away from my true family, and that at eighteen years old I'd be swooped up by the aliens of planet fashionista, and we'd have a grand family reunion, complete with hot pink, sparkles, and Raven Symone soundtracks. My dad tried to make me feel better by singing "girl power," but that just doesn't have the same ring to it when it's 1) sung by someone who's channeling Bob Dylan, and 2) by someone who's embarrassing when they so much as breathe.
Unfortunately, the fashionista aliens never got the memo, although my 18th birthday still contained numerous sparkles. I never got the letter from Hogwarts either. The world is full of disappointments when aliens and owls don't invade your home. I did however, just get a pair of hiking boots for an upcoming backpacking trip, and I've spent the past month writing stories for fun. Not only have I turned into my parents, but more horrifically, I've realized they were right all along. My mother telling me I was a writer wasn't an evil plan to get me to the dark side of English majors. My dad's insistence that I would one day enjoy hiking, and that it's only a mosquito-ridden hell if you go to Assateague Island at the end of May--it turned out not to be background noise whenever my radio stopped working. That one took a bit longer to sink in, since I'd been scratching at leftover bites for five years. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating. It might have been four and a half years.
In sixth grade, I knew absolutely everything--clearly boys were obnoxious stinkbugs who couldn't possibly like me if they purposely got my name wrong; my mom's promise that they did that because they did like me was just a pity consolation. I knew that leggings would totally make their comeback (hey, I was right--just four years too early), and that the only way to get attention over my older brother was to throw strawberries at the wall, in a fit of rage that they would make me fat. I had it all worked out; those people who told me I'd admit my parents were right obviously didn't have a mother who threw hula hops on the garage roof, or a dad who thought Zaidico Mac was a suitable name for his daughter.
After unleashing my closet nerd, I'm astounded by how much cooler my parents are, and how they know shit I wouldn't even think to ask. Hula hoop throwing is now positively badass, and if my dorm had a slanted roof, I'd be that person. College advisers tell us "don't be that guy." They're used to "that guy" being the drinking fool who finds fun in hacking their brains out and not remembering their own name. Although I'm not certain they'd be relieved in finding a new "that person" pounding dorm roofs. I'll just have to stick to borrowing my father's Beatles CDs and blasting them in my room. Epic dance parties will be involved.
I had some real determination that I would go as far from my parents' hopes and dreams--I was my own person, darnit! I would live in a big city, and never see trees again. I would make tons of money as a model, an actress--anything a Marshall or Mckelvey has never done before! Yet here I am, entering the college in which my parents work, as a hiking boot wearing English major. Either they had an insatiably sneaky brainwash plot, or my parents knew a thing or two as I've grown up. I guess those fashionista aliens can stay put for a while, because I'm set with parents who sing embarrassing song lyrics.
Namaste.
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