I said, "Pick any pair of pants and a shirt." She brought over a pair of playboy jeans with a huge bunny on the ass. Something in me seized up. I looked at the huge sign over our heads. It read "juniors." I looked back at the rack of clothes, at my young friend, and around at the other teen aged girls picking through this stuff. I blanked out. For a moment. I couldn't say anything. When I did find my voice, it was all anger. I railed, but kept my promise.
She got the jeans. They looked good on her.
So, I thought I'd had my vent and gotten over it. I thought I was done with the whole playboy for preteens thing. But I guess not.
At 3:23 this morning I crawled to the kitchen to "eat." I sat on the floor against the counter in the glow of the nightlight. I said aloud, "I'm angry." And then I started crying. And then I tried to eat some corn chex out of the box, which was impossible because you can't really swallow when you're crying. So I just kinda dissolved for a minute into a heap of chex and tears and spit.
And I know that wearing the bunny logo doesn't make a huge difference in a young girl's life. It doesn't make her sluttier or more likely to be taken advantage of by men. Her family, her friends are more important in deliniating where her worth lies and who she is. And I know that pornography doesn't make a guy a child-raping pervert. It matters what he's told by his parents when he's growing up, by what occurs in his life to shape his thinking.
But it didn't stop. I felt wickedly angry. Angry with this country for raising a generation of jackals that preys on its own and leaves little bodies strewn through the neighborhoods. Another mother in her oversized t-shirt and faded jeans sobbing uncontrollably on the TV. Another slew of posters of sweet-faced children who we all know probably won't be coming home alive. Another day when your stomach drops into your feet and you feel numb because no one seems to be able to protect the innocent.
I'm angry. I'm not ready for Playboy to be the next Tommy Girl. I'm not ready for them to be the new cleancut all-American look. Que sera sera, my ass.
I did eventually get to sleep. And woke up wobbly, but fine. Just a little disturbed by how much shit has to be swept under the rug to make this world appear OK for living in each morning. I try not to think about it. Because if the truth be told there's no one for me to kick, no child to rescue, no wrongs I can right. It all happens "out there." And I'm here. Helpless and enraged. All I can do is give it up and go back to sleep, back to work, back to k_sra.
Labels: crime, culture, fashion, journal, shopping, whining
First of all, nobody likes a drunk driver. They crash into things and they smell bad. So please don't drink and drive. But if you just happen to be innocently commuting from one wine-tasting to another with more alcohol on your breath than in your system, then you'll want to keep these tips in mind. (I think this could also make a great party game. That way, you'll also know when it's time to take your guest' keys from them!)
