I was at the local hot pools the other night. So were a billion teenagers. It’s school holidays and they have every right to have a soak to ease their tired bones and melt away the weight of the world on their shoulders. After all, it’s hard being 16.
I found out its really tough. As soon as we parked up, there was a small group of young baby-faced males who had come out of the hot pools to have a much needed cigarette. Because it’s super stressful to be on holiday and be at the hot pools, while trying to actually look older than your pre-bum fluff face allows. It was bitterly cold and the main fullar of the group was showing off his moobs and the growing baby in his tum. Harsh, I know. But I should have told Porky to go for a run. Maybe his lungs aren’t able to capacitate both.
After doing the ‘dodge the cold winter air shuffle’ (to avoid extreme erect nipple embarrassment), while trying not to arse over and still look classy with my cellulite deciding tonight was perfect for making an onstage debut to perform for the crowds, I made it to the pool where the not so secret password to enter was either “Oh my God” or “like”.
I sat down to notice that I had stepped into a time travel pool, as I was transported back to the 80’s with the abundance of long curly cross-breeding of rats-tail mullets. Sitting opposite me was a youngin’ sporting a David Bowie glam rock-esque do. The kind that’s borderline 70’s drug period crossed with the 80’s onslaught of heavy metal bands. A heavy fringe complete with a length of naturally curly locks to the shoulder. Ground control to Major Tom…..
I looked around to notice a lot of adolescents with an unbalanced ratio of more guys than gals. It was like we were in high school, but high school was in a hot pool. There were definitely the stereo-typical groups present. The young couple who are trying to appear more mature than they actually are by attempting to replicate romantic movie moments, the geekier boys hoping that their school status isn’t noticed outside of the playground, the bigger girls who cover up by wearing singlets and shorts over their swimsuits (that only exaggerate your size), the overly confident chick with the ample cup size sashaying around the pool at any opportunity, the guys who watch her sashay past and have to stay in the water just a bit longer, the girl who thinks she’s fat but really she’s just a stick, the third or fifth wheel dynamics, and the shyness present at not being able to strike up a conversation with a member of the opposite sex.
I tuned into the conversations surrounding me. Underlying enthusiasm over organising the coming weekend activities, while still trying to sound lax about it. Figuring out who has a car, who can drive, where the party is going to be, how much money each person can chip in, and how the beers are going to be purchased.
At that stage, I wished I could be sixteen again for the day. But then I realised the awkwardness, the lack of confidence over my body (which I would happily have again in a flash), the why is the world against me attitude, the wistful pining over being 18 and independent, and having to be home at a certain time or having to be picked up.
Yep, I think I’ll stick to being happy about being my age and mocking the crap out of the unforgiving hairstyles that were never meant to make a comeback. Because let’s face it, these kids have no idea who Bowie is.