girlhood

We’re grateful to be getting older, scared of the very same thing. We praise the smallest achievements and cry at the tiniest moments.

We talk over cheap white wine, pretending we could ever tell the difference between an expensive bottle and the Aldi aisle crap. “We should move to Italy,” we muse, pulling up Pinterest boards of summer outfits. We debate fast fashion, trends that shift faster than the leaves turn, and worry—wondering if we’ll ever be good enough role models for our own daughters. (We will be.)

We read cheesy romance novels, swipe through each other’s Tinders, and laugh at the shallow messages men send. We talk about not being enough. The coffee dates, the sweet treats, and then the inevitable discussion of diet culture. Fuck not feeling good in our bodies. Secretly, we envy what we can never have.

It’s curling each other’s hair, clasping necklaces, and swapping wardrobes. It’s also debating current affairs and striving to be well-read, post-modern feminists. But feminism is exactly what we’re doing right now, isn’t it? It never feels like enough.

It’s being awoken at 3 a.m. to stay on the phone until she gets home safe. It’s also waking up to texts saying, “I think I met the one tonight,” and rolling your eyes. We’ve all been there. The man at the club is not your husband. But who is?

We’ll watch Sex and the City, sympathize with Charlotte, hate Carrie, but also feel for her. I’ll compliment your eye makeup; you’ll ask me what foundation I’m wearing. Then we’ll go back to chasing our degrees.

This is the mess of it—the contradictions, the insecurities, the laughter, and the love. It’s everything and not enough, and that’s what makes it ours.