Sometimes, my baby sister has surprisingly good sense for a fourteen-year-old. A few nights ago, I was visiting my parents, luxuriating in the comforts of free food, and enjoying the loud affections of younger siblings. Lydia and I had closeted ourselves in her room, and I was whining, er, relating my frustrations about having what I perceive to be very stereotypical, young, female interests. Fashion. Shoes. Pretty, indie photos of random buildings. Cats. Social justice. It’s like to make me, all you have to do is mix a little hipster, a little well-to-do middle aged suburbanite, and a pinch of artsy bohemian, with the end result being a very standardized package, available at most pretentious coffee houses.
My ever patient sister fixed me with an amused but bored stare. “You do realize that everyone is a stereotype, right? You’re just another person. You don’t have to be some special snowflake, honey.” But, I protested, there are really interesting people out there who make me sprout little budding inferiority complexes. People who volunteer at elephant rehabilitation centers (too much physical labor). Or lobby for political reform (too thankless and complicated). Or take care of small children (too smelly and LOUD). To which the wee Yoda replied that I should spend less time navel-gazing about what I think other people want me to do, and more time being actually good at the shit that I really like. What a concept. So, in that vein, I will now spend all my free time blogging about femme-y shoes, drawing naked women, and shopping at Nordstrom. Or possibly posting a lot of slightly obnoxious cute animal pics on my roommate’s Facebook page. You know, something really original.
