The Teenage Psyche II

by Amy Meade

Happy News Citizen Journalist

My 17 year-old stepdaughter flops onto the floor in front of me and laces up her black suede Vans in anticipation of an evening out with friends. "I think I'm maturing," she avers.

I look up from my computer monitor, unsure as to what to expect. Was this to be the crucial and long-awaited, "You and Dad were right" conversation? Or on a smaller scale, yet just as wondrous, a renunciation of McDonald's, Chef Boyardee and Pizza Pops in favor of food with real nutritional value? Or perhaps a pleasant news flash in which she announces she has just cleaned the kitchen? I wait in eager anticipation.

"You know how I get a pair of black boots every year?" she continues. "Well I've never liked brown boots because I never saw the point of them. But yesterday I bought a bunch of belts in different colors and one of them is brown, and I got to thinking that it would be nice to have a pair of brown boots to match my brown belt."

There it was: the epiphany. All those discussions regarding responsibility, duty and the higher self condensed into a cohesive, all-encompassing fashion statement: brown boots. A bit of wisdom so lofty, so profound, it could have descended straight from a participant in 'America's Next Top Model', but instead had passed from the lips of our daughter, future graduate of the Heidi Klum School of Philosophy.

I glance about the room in hopes that Alan Funt, Dick Clark, Ed McMahon or even Ashton Kutcher will emerge from some hidden corner and inform me that this is all a joke. But, alas, with the exception of my napping husband, there is no one else in the room. I stare, speechless with disbelief, at my stepdaughter's ingenuous countenance.

"See?" she urges, seeking some form of positive reinforcement. "I'm being practical."

I awaken from my quasi-fugue state and am about to point out that spending her wages on fast food, movie rentals and a bunch of very expensive, fake leather belts - which she doesn't need because her jeans fit as though they've been painted on - isn't exactly practical. However, upon recalling the empty Tylenol bottle in the medicine cabinet, I choose, instead, to wipe a fake tear from my eye and play along.

"I'm very proud of you," I reply, my voice cracking. "You know, I think it was Buddha who said that the path to spiritual enlightenment could only be traveled in brown boots."

The sarcasm of my words has fallen on deaf ears. She's already out of the door, keys and water bottle in hand.

The next day, however, I get another lesson on maturity as I announce that my grandmother is ill and in the hospital. "That's terrible," my stepdaughter sympathizes. "I'm never going to get old. I'm going to make sure I die by the age of 40."

I'm about to laugh at the genuineness and naïveté of her statement until I realize that, according to her life-clock, I would already be a widow, and a rather old one at that.

Her boyfriend, who has been listening to the conversation, leaps to my defense. "That isn't nice. You want your Dad and stepmom to be dead?"

"I wouldn't be dead," I argue. "I'm only 32…and a half."

"Oh. Well, I guess you can do a lot in 7-and-a-half years. I have a dog who's 8 and a cat who's 12 and they've lived full lives."

I nod in agreement. "Yes, but as one who doesn't drink from toilets, I can only pray that the remainder of my life is so rewarding, Jerry."

"That's Joey," he corrects.

"Whatever. I'm old, humor me."

Later that day, my stepdaughter approaches me while I'm preparing dinner. "Joey's sorry about comparing you to his pets. He can be really immature sometimes."

I smile. "You mean he doesn't understand the importance of brown boots in a woman's wardrobe?"

"Huh?"

I shake my head. "Nevermind."

As my stepdaughter retreats to the sanctity of her bedroom, her face a question, I laugh to myself as I realize her next step on the road to adulthood and self-awareness is just around the corner: a brown handbag.

This story was produced by a Happynews Citizen Journalist.

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