Birthdays · 6:05am Sep 3rd, 2013
When I turned twelve, I looked like I was ten. I got a guitar for my birthday. My parents saved up and got me a really nice Gibson after I spent a year practically begging for one. Because I didn’t look old enough physically to impress the girls I was suddenly taking an interest in, I decided that my angle would be through music. After all, I had a pretty good singing voice already when I didn’t sound like this guy. With guitar in hand I was going to rock like Springsteen, compose soulful ballads like Lightfoot, and be quirky and eccentric like Zappa. Then I actually tried practicing. My first time, I cut my finger trying to slide down the strings. It didn’t get any better from there. Months later, I broke the guitar in a fit of rage and then hid the evidence out of shame. I told my parents I took it to school and would only practice from there. Thankfully they never pressed the issue.
When I turned fifteen, I looked like I was twelve. I got my learner’s permit that same day. It was a big deal at the time since both my parents worked, and being able to drive myself to and from places was a necessity. Also, I was the first in my grade to receive a permit. I wasn’t the oldest sophomore, far from it, but there were only like 80 other kids in my class— I went to a spoiled richboy private school, you see. I was determined that summer to use my newfound driving powers to ferry around friends and prove my manliness by showing off how mature and reliable I could be. My first time out that summer, I took my older brother, he who had an actual license so I could be on the road, and three of my friends, including a girl I was interested in, out for lunch in Center City. On the way I was pulled over by a cop, not for speeding or reckless driving or improper tags or a busted taillight or anything like that. The guy saw me and thought I was joyriding, too young to actually have a permit. To me, it was a total humiliation in all aspects and it would happen three more times over the next two years. I never did get that date either.
When I turned twenty-one, I looked like I was sixteen. I was finally able to go to a bar and legally drink. Having been no stranger to alcohol thanks to friends and a Russian father who didn’t really care about that particular vice, I felt prepared for my planned night. It was a big deal for me then since it would be the first time I’d be served publicly. Pittsburgh bars didn’t give a shit back then if you looked close enough, but I didn’t. So even though I’d had plenty of drinking experience under my belt, I still saw this as a rite of passage and my friends were eager to celebrate with me. We hit the first bar. I handed my license when prompted and was immediately accused of forgery and thrown out. My friends thought this was the funniest thing ever. I was angry for the remainder of the night.
When I turned twenty-four, I looked like I was eighteen. Two days earlier, I was introduced to the woman who would eventually become my wife. We struck up a conversation initially about art – she had been a ceramics major in art school and I knew enough from numerous history courses to keep up – that later evolved into Star Wars somehow once I learned she was just as much a nerd as me. I was charming. I was erudite. I was funny. I was mature. I was cute. She complimented me on all these qualities and then asked me what college I planned on attending in the fall. I shook my head but I still got her number anyway. And I remembered to call the next day, three day rule be damned.
When I turned thirty-one, I looked like I was twenty. Four months after my birthday, my daughter came into my life. I showed everyone at work the pictures. She looked like the most beautiful burrito in the world. I was given lots of congratulations and reassurances that I’d need to invest in shotguns in about fourteen years. One of my coworkers was brand new at the time. He asked me if it was going to be awkward later to eventually have such a small age gap between an adult daughter and father. He thought I was a college drop-out. I remember his eyes bugged out – I thought it was just a phrase until then, didn’t know it could really happen – when I told him how old I was. I remember laughing.
I turned forty-three this year, yet I look closer to twenty-five than forty-five. That morning I made love to my wife. That afternoon I painted the front door because it desperately needed a new coat. That afternoon my daughter gave me a homemade card and a homemade cake, and my son proudly proclaimed he helped too, though I suspect all he really did was lick frosting out of the bowl every chance he could get. That evening I went out for a hastily planned, last minute night of fun with friends because it was decided I needed it after burying two relatives one week earlier. They were probably right.
I mention all these moments because yesterday, it is technically yesterday, we celebrated my daughter’s twelfth birthday. She’s reached the point where she wants to dress like all the other girls in school and she wants to be a musician and taken seriously and be noticed. She wants it so bad because she looks like she’s ten, underdeveloped and small compared to her classmates. I know exactly what that look in her eyes feels like. It’s not a genetic curse or anything. Some folks get their cutie marks first, like Rainbow Dash. Some get them last, like Applejack. Her worries are temporary. She’ll grow breasts soon enough. She’ll get noticed in school just like I did, though she may have to show more persistence and confidence, also like I did. And even then, she probably won’t get as many dates as her friends. She’ll be asked to present her ID everywhere she goes and be accused of forgery. Strangers will ask her what college she plans on attending after she’s already graduated.
I want to tell her these stories. I want to assure her it’s not so bad because I don’t want the next ten years to be so rough on her self-appearance like they were on mine. It took a long time before I got comfortable with the truth that I will always look young. And hey, look, I know I can. I can tell her these tales as easily as I’m telling them now. But it won’t mean as much without the experience behind it. It won’t resonate as keenly without some visceral component to apply. And even if I could circumvent all that, reach way down into her core and impart a complete range of knowledge, I’m not sure I’d want to. By taking that much control I’d be robbing her of her life and the ability to live it. Giving her a step-by-step walkthrough based only on my experiences doesn’t allow her to address and overcome the problem, which is internal. It just teaches her to avoid it until the day when it becomes overwhelmingly unavoidable.
So for her party I bought her a copy of “Siddhartha,” which I hope she’ll read one day and pull out the messages about life and journeying. And I’m confident she will, smart as she is – helps that it’s not a difficult read too. During a quiet moment in the evening, I told her how proud I am of her. I often tell her that I love her, but I don’t think I communicate the other stuff enough. I told her I’ll always be there for her, when she has a question, when she asks for advice, when she needs support. I can only hope the things I’ve provided, combined with her own innate knowledge, will be enough. As the birthdays pile up, she will grow into herself no matter what she looks like on the outside, just as I had to do.
Oh, and I also got her a really nice – and expensive! – pair of designer jeans. Because, you know, why the hell not.
That's so sweet.
I will say, from experience, that looking young isn't as big a problem for women. People tend to find it attractive if a 24 year old looks like an 18 year old. She might still get carded a lot (I'm 30, and sometimes people don't card me anymore, when they happen to notice the gray in my hair, or when I'm with my husband) but there are a lot more people who will think it's "cute."
With regards to growing into herself... if she manages it, I wish she'd let me know how... of course, I never did read that copy of "Siddhartha" my mom got me. Maybe that was the problem.