On Santa Baby

I’m twenty years old, but with big eyes and ringlet curls, I look like a child. I am 5’2″ and have yet to crack a hundred pounds; my complimentary adjectives include “cute” “sweet” and “aw”.

But people aren’t always nice. I am constantly asked why I’m not in school, or if I’m “old enough to be working here”. Usually it’s all presumptuous nonsense, and for a long time, I could ignore it. Since leaving high school however, the wicked, aged, and wrinkled have crept inside my head.

I’ve taken to flattening my curls–to listening them sizzle in the clamp of my ten year old straightener. In an attempt to look older, I pay out the ass to cover my eyelids with a nice, thick coat of black gunk. I sculpt, I dance, I stand on my head; I read non-fiction–yeah it’s that bad.

The holidays can be weird. My family always forgets that 365 days worth of growing up have happened since last Christmas. To them I am still ironically “Big Al” or simply “Allie”.

I used to long to come home from college with stack of published stories–to finally be seen as old enough to live this very adult life.

I used to ache for the mature command of Eartha Kitt; to embody the dripping sex of Santa Baby. I could think of nothing more desirable than using the slopes of my voice to ask for–no–demand whatever I wanted.

Duplex? AND checks? This chick held nothing back. As a tiny teen, was I wrong to envy this confidence? This sense of self-ownership?

Not exactly–but my perception of sexual maturity was wildly misguided. I saw self-definition as something tangible–something to be heard in the voice. At seventeen, I didn’t know how to be a daughter–or the niece that Uncle Kevin saw once a year–while also feeling comfortable in my maturity.

For a long time, I played dress up on Christmas. I wore lipstick and dresses–said little, sighed often, and hardly smiled. As a tiny teen, I tried out my best Eartha Kitt.

But, dear reader, I’ve been through a lot this year.

This  afternoon, I found myself falling asleep at 3 pm. I woke up from my midday, Christmas snooze to Santa Baby blaring from my sister’s iPhone. I looked down at my turtleneck, and rubbed my eyes–not at all worried about smudging my makeup, as I had not put any on this morning.

I threw my curly hair up into a bun, and went to the kitchen to help my mom cook Brussels sprouts. My grandma came to take a photo of us, and I smiled.. with my teeth.

The growing up happened, 365 days since last Christmas, and I was a little closer it would seem, to my own version of Eartha Kitt’s confidence.

Though perhaps less of a voice than a feeling, I’m not entirely unhappy with were I am–with the distillation of my life.