not applying myself.

I was watching myself from across both a room and a timespan of about eight years. A girl who reminded me of my sixteen-year-old self stood self-consciously next to the stage at the Cat's Cradle, her arms folded across her chest. The show had not yet started, and so she and her friend were just staking out the area right in front so they'd be sure and have the best spot once everyone else rushed the stage.

I confess that I am prone to see some incarnation of my teenaged self in pretty much any adolescent who looks uncomfortable in public. I always want to go and talk to them, reassure them, "It's okay, kid, you'll make it." This girl was wearing a too-large t-shirt and ill-fitting jeans. She was sporting a pair of black Chuck Taylors, her long mousy brown hair up in a messy ponytail, no makeup. She reminded me of myself in that she was obviously trying to wear what the cool kids were wearing, but she didn't seem to care quite enough about her appearance to put in enough effort to pass as a cool kid. Man, that's me all over. I imagined both our fashion report cards being riddled with comments like "Does not meet full potential" and "Not applying herself."

She and her friend didn't seem to have much to talk about, so they just hung out at the front of the room, watching people and attempting to look casual as they waited for the bands to go onstage. They didn't have long to wait. To the right of the stage, an awkward adolescent all grown up was giving a boy an affectionate and unabashed public kiss before he headed to the stage to play a rock show. I pulled away from my bassist, and as I turned, I caught her watching us with a kissing virgin's envy. I smirked to be a rock star's girlfriend, to be comfortable with who I am, to not be sixteen anymore. What a marvelous feeling to realize that the girl I used to be would have very much wanted to be the girl I am now. I took my new knowledge and my private smile to the the bar. Even the most confident of us need a beer sometimes.