There must a troubled teenager.
My life has become, if possible, even slower lately…well, my social life has—studies are killing off whatever they had left me at the beginning of the year. Anyway, the purpose is to say that I don’t have anything to report. Rather than give an annoying rundown on my day (as I seem to do way too often), I decided that it was time to share one of my favorite little gems of a family story.
It was probably two years ago that my mom decided that it was time to finally worry about me getting involved in unsavory activities. This would probably start at an earlier age in most homes, but as I was pretty much locked in my room either doing school or reading books (and subsequently not exactly friend material for the “rough” kids around), my parents apparently saw no reason to add any more grey to their heads before absolutely necessary. Enter: my summer job.
It should be noted that I wasn’t exactly naïve going into my job; I was (almost) completely aware that my coworkers were no angels and had a propensity to party every night. I also soon found out that they liked to “corrupt” the new kids that they deemed worthy to hang out with them. Now, there are a few things that can make them absolutely hate you as a new kid. A few examples would be a) talking too much b) talking too little c) acting afraid of them in the open and d) not treating them with enough respect as befits their seventeen plus years on the planet. Luckily (in I’m-so-glad-they-didn’t-make-my-life-living-hell sense), they were all relatively okay with me, and, in fact, became more so as time went on. Eventually my bluntest coworker started in with the inevitable questions, with conversations sucha s this one becoming quite common:
“Do you drink?”
“No, ___.”
“Would you drink?”
“As in ‘would I drink right now if given the chance’? No.”
“Why not?”
“Well, to start, I have this thing about not wanting to have a record…”
“So?”
“Wait, you do realize it isn’t legal, right?”
Basically, the waters were being tested to see if I would party with them. They’d even invite me out without specifics on what the evening would hold, but this became a joke quickly after one night when two of the girls called me from a bar and grill.
“Heeeeey! What’chya doin’?”
“A? Why are you calling me at midnite?”
“I’m out with J and we wanted to know what you were doing!”
“I’m reading a book, A.”
“What?! You’re reading? At midnight?” *peals of laughter*
*sigh* “Yes. Yes, I’m reading at midnight.”
“What’chya readin’?”
She then made me give a short synopsis of the book, and then put my other coworker on the line, making for an interesting conversation, since I’m pretty sure that neither of them were exactly sober at that point. To be honest, none of it bothered (or still bothers) me that much. Eventually, it just became the joke of our workplace, and we all understood our place. I was officially the nerd/over-zealous book reader, they were the partiers, and we could coexist comfortably and even amiably at work. Honestly, all of this rambling has been to explain that, yes, my mother was aware that I was now within reach of anything that she considered wrong, illegal, or immoral…about four years after everyone else.
Because I’m so lucky, this means that my mom decided that it was time to start bugging me about my whereabouts all the time. During the school year, she has no worries—as I said, I’m in my room with poor internet connection, so it’s a pretty safe bet that I’m squeaky clean. However, they start to worry more during the summer since I actually see my friends in person and meet new people—away from them. Apparently I must be the type to throw off all caution, because this little scene occurred sometime in August, I believe:
*Mom arrives home from a day of shopping. My dad and brother have been working, so I’ve had the house to myself. After helping her get the bags into the house, I leave her to arrange them in her OCD fashion well I go pretend that laying out in the sun will add color to my near-albino body. After about fifteen minutes pass, Mom walks out to the deck where I am, and, as I get up, hugs me. Tightly. Suddenly, I notice that she’s sniffing my hair. That’s right, sniffing my hair.*
Me: “Um…what do you think you’re doing?”
My mother: “Nothing! I’m just hugging you!”
*doesn’t let me move; continues to sniff hair.*
“Mom, why are you smelling me? I showered, okay? What, do I smell bad?”
*Finally backs off*
“Well, the pantry smelled like cigarettes.”
“So naturally you thought that I must have been smoking cigarettes in the pantry.”
“Well, I thought I should check. It’s a mother’s job.”
“I think the most insulting thing is that you think I’m stupid enough to smoke them in the pantry. Don’t you think that I would have the sense to at least do that somewhere that you would smell it?”
Yes, readers, my mom was convinced that not my father, who used to smoke cigars regularly, not my brother, who would have more access, but little me was the culprit of smoke in the pantry. (Consequently, I went to check the pantry myself. It didn’t smell like smoke—more like dead mouse.)
Have a lovely April day, and remember to be grateful for mothers who aren’t nosy.
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