In her left hand she held a cigarette and in her right her cell phone. I studied for a moment the way she delicately dangled her cigarette out the window while apparently reading a text message from someone in her endless network of friends. And somehow between the two, she managed to steer the wheel.
Ahh… What a nervous wreck I was. But soon I was pulled away from thoughts of my possible bloody end by way of car accident by a flickering thought. When had she picked up smoking as a habit? Oh, I am not so naive as to believe she had never smoked. I doubt many have made it through the teenage years without so much as a puff of smoke in their previously virgin lungs. The cause, I'm sure, is about ten percent curiosity and ninety percent rebellion. Ha. At least that was the case for me.
But what really got to me, I should say, rather was the thought that she had changed. Something quite remarkable about her demeanor. Possibly, I thought, it was the fact that she was a smoker? I questioned this to myself for a moment.
No. No. That was not it. Though, she had developed what I shall call the Traits of a Smoker 1. Haha! Yes, she had. Her head was cocked up in an air of arrogance. Her lips stayed in a constant purse as though she had some devious secret that would spill out at any moment. And that look in her eyes… A warning to all in her path that she was as tough as an anvil, if not tougher.
Yet, it was not just the physical condition of her poor lungs that I was sure had changed. It was something deeper inside. Something almost good, but smelled sinister.
Growing up with this friend of mine had given me the chance to see her in a way others can‘t. I knew the child inside her. I knew the awkward middle school-er in her. I knew the guy-swooning teenager in her. Yet, she was becoming a woman.
The bridge between teenager to woman, I must say from my own experience, is terrifyingly rocky. It sways and bows and threatens to throw off any who dare to cross it. Slow is the process, I must say. Some days one must crawl to prevent falling into the abyss. The abyss of broken souls of women, or should I say young women, who never made it.
I smiled to myself. That was it. And somehow I had missed it. When does one begin regarding oneself as a woman, rather than a mere teenager? When does that long-hoped-for day when we arrive at the other side of this torturous bridge occur? What exactly marks the start of womanhood?
Something inside my dear Friend had indeed changed. It was as if somewhere deep behind those big blue eyes of hers was a sign: Caution! Under Construction. What a fragile state this is, between childhood to womanhood. Marking or scarring one for life.
I smile once more. For I had every confidence my dear Friend would arrive on the other side of this bridge and become nothing less than a fine woman.
But for now all I could see was the image of my dear Friend at five, toothpick in hand, cocking that pretty blond head of hers, pretending to smoke a cigarette the way grown-ups did.
1No offence, Smokers, I am simply for the sake of this um, essay using a stereotypical description… (How horrid of me.)
Ahh… What a nervous wreck I was. But soon I was pulled away from thoughts of my possible bloody end by way of car accident by a flickering thought. When had she picked up smoking as a habit? Oh, I am not so naive as to believe she had never smoked. I doubt many have made it through the teenage years without so much as a puff of smoke in their previously virgin lungs. The cause, I'm sure, is about ten percent curiosity and ninety percent rebellion. Ha. At least that was the case for me.
But what really got to me, I should say, rather was the thought that she had changed. Something quite remarkable about her demeanor. Possibly, I thought, it was the fact that she was a smoker? I questioned this to myself for a moment.
No. No. That was not it. Though, she had developed what I shall call the Traits of a Smoker 1. Haha! Yes, she had. Her head was cocked up in an air of arrogance. Her lips stayed in a constant purse as though she had some devious secret that would spill out at any moment. And that look in her eyes… A warning to all in her path that she was as tough as an anvil, if not tougher.
Yet, it was not just the physical condition of her poor lungs that I was sure had changed. It was something deeper inside. Something almost good, but smelled sinister.
Growing up with this friend of mine had given me the chance to see her in a way others can‘t. I knew the child inside her. I knew the awkward middle school-er in her. I knew the guy-swooning teenager in her. Yet, she was becoming a woman.
The bridge between teenager to woman, I must say from my own experience, is terrifyingly rocky. It sways and bows and threatens to throw off any who dare to cross it. Slow is the process, I must say. Some days one must crawl to prevent falling into the abyss. The abyss of broken souls of women, or should I say young women, who never made it.
I smiled to myself. That was it. And somehow I had missed it. When does one begin regarding oneself as a woman, rather than a mere teenager? When does that long-hoped-for day when we arrive at the other side of this torturous bridge occur? What exactly marks the start of womanhood?
Something inside my dear Friend had indeed changed. It was as if somewhere deep behind those big blue eyes of hers was a sign: Caution! Under Construction. What a fragile state this is, between childhood to womanhood. Marking or scarring one for life.
I smile once more. For I had every confidence my dear Friend would arrive on the other side of this bridge and become nothing less than a fine woman.
But for now all I could see was the image of my dear Friend at five, toothpick in hand, cocking that pretty blond head of hers, pretending to smoke a cigarette the way grown-ups did.
1No offence, Smokers, I am simply for the sake of this um, essay using a stereotypical description… (How horrid of me.)
4 Back Talkers:
It is kind of strange to watch everyone change around you. I know I change with them, but I don't pay as much attention to it in myself.
Everyone crosses a bridge, makes mistakes, gathers regrets. As long as we land safely on the other side, I think we can all be fine.
Good post.
It is strange how people change right before your eyes. It's almost beautiful, even though the thing they change into may not be so much.
Another great post!
You don't just cross the bridge from what I feel. Not like the landing of a plane nor the departure from a train.
It's not finite and absolute. It's more of a slow transition, a sleeper train and at some point you realise that on your journey; you've changed.
It takes you longer to realise the change and you usually have to have someone else point it out to you but it happens. Eventually. Oh so subtly.
Yeah, I agree. Change is so slow. Half the time you don't even realized anything has changed.
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