Page 2 of Girls Will Be Girls
She would’ve milked it for all it’s worth.
Pretended that it didn’t even bother her. That she’s not like other girls, so she’s not grossed out by stuff like that.
Past me was a dirty little liar, because past me was the ultimate pick-me girl.
Present me, however, does not like this story. Present me is very upset that she’s currently living through this story.
There comes a point when you’ve lived in a city like New York long enough that you get used to the crowds, the noise, the summer heat, and even the not being able to afford anything.
But there also comes a point when you’ve lived here long enough, when some things can’t just be brushed off because it’s so charminglyNew York.
I was squished onto theJ Train, doing my usual Elaine Benes impression of someone anxiously losing their mind on a cramped subway car, when a rat — a fat, dirty, king of New York,definitely runs this city rat — took a leap of faith from one metal pole to the next and fell onto my neck.
This train was so full, we were so sardined, I couldn’t even shake the not-so-lil’ guy off of me for a good few seconds. I was thrashing and screaming, making one hell of a scene before it dropped and scampered off into the sea of feet.
It proves the theory that everyone on this island has some kind of Stockholm Syndrome towards this city when no one bats an eye at a rat scurrying around people’s shoes on a sweaty subway car. At most, people shifted to the side in hopes they weren’t its next victim.
At least everyone being perfectly content with our favorite neighbors getting cockier by the day meant no one cared when I started crying either, letting out silent sobs from the comfort of a stranger’s musty armpit.
Finally, at theAirTrainplatform with streaked makeup, a desire to set myself on fire, and a loop of,“The rats are absolutely going to hate this announcement,”playing in my head like some sick joke, I cover myself in so much hand sanitizer I resemble a slimy Danny Devito from his Philadelphia days trying to be pure. But nothing less than a scalding hour-long shower will make me feel clean again.
I already feel sorry for whoever has to sit next to me on my long flight to Reno. There is only so much deodorant in the world.
But it’s fine.
Everything is fine.
Sure, I’ll probably be finding remnant rat hairs stuck to my clammy skin and attached to my favorite black Lululemon shorts for the foreseeable future, but I saved like ten bucks by not springing for an Uber and instead cramming onto an August rush-hour subway.
I can’t let a little cosmic test ruin my day.
And as my buddy Millhouse would say, everything’s coming up, because there’s a coffee shop in my eyeline and I have earned a little treat. It’s time for an overly sweet, calorie-busting, icy concoction to soothe my traumatized soul.
The AC blasts me as soon as I step into the main part of the JFK terminal, making the sweat dry on my forehead.
I don’t feel great, so either the rat juices have seeped into my skin, making me feel slightly high, the temperature change has made me delirious, or my anxiety is rising close to overwhelmed breakdown levels as I hustle through the crowd of holidaymakers.
I wheel my 70s flower-pattern suitcase with my vintage Nike duffel bag balanced on top into the busy coffee shop. I order my hazelnut and vanilla iced latte sans the coffee because it’s just anxiety juice, plus extra whipped cream before retreating to a dark corner to breathe, and wipe more sweat and rat hairs off my skin. Luckily, this place is packed enough that I’ll have time to air-bathe some more and no one will be looking at the unhinged woman scrubbing herself, especially while a charmingly high-pitched toddler screams in the middle of the shop.
I mentally thank all the would-never-gate-keep-girlies on TikTok for ushering me into my skincare era, because now I have a clear TSA-approved pouch full of the best of the best to help me feel clean (ish) again.
Past me would have never been seen conforming and usingbasicpopular skincare like this, and it’s yet another reason to be so grateful that past me is dead.
It’s a long story, but the gist of it is that a few years ago, I had a quarter-life crisis — or maybe it was Saturn’s return— and it flipped a switch in my head. I looked at my life and grimaced at what I’d made it.
I had no idea who I was or what I liked.
I just knew I hated what I’d let myself become.
A girl hater.
I’d grown up believing that other girls were my competition. I’d been pitted against them, told that being like them or liking the things they liked was bad.
All my life I’d been playing a solo sport when there was a whole team behind me waiting to play with me.
I’ve been taking small steps to not be that person anymore. Forming my first female friendships, allowing myself to enjoy anythingbasic, and wearing anything that brings me joy. Especially if it’s pink, because I would never have been seen dead in that as a teenager.
It does mean I have no semblance of personal style, though. My friends describe it as thrift store roulette. I’m still trying to find myself, and most days I’ll feel different than the last, so my outfit choices are sometimes a complete mishmash. I’m yet to find mything.
