So I’ve been thinking a lot about Second Puberty lately.
Did you know Second Puberty was a thing? I did not, but it has me feeling some kind of way. I’ll admit I’m a bit of a hypocrite because I will chuckle good-naturedly at friends worrying themselves to a shadow over forehead lines and then run off to obsessively Google whether jowls are hereditary (the jury is still out but I’ll be making spreadsheets and graphs tracking family chin-tautness).
I’m creeping up on 30 so if it’s going to happen it’s going to happen soon, and I guess if there’s a trend in my–er–development, it established itself already. This means I have evidence to draw upon.
Until about 11 or 12 years old I was allowed to get away with saying and doing A Lot Of Shit because I was relatively pleasing to the eye and had toadstool princess hair and a charming trait which some call ‘precocious’ and which I call ‘pathological inability to keep my mouth shut’.
Then age 13 struck and it all went to the dogs: for the next five or so years I was buck-toothed, bespectacled and cube-shaped. It took a damn long time to climb out of all that, and even now I’ve realized that you can’t escape your ancestors (or dairy allergies) and the most charitable description I usually give people trying to spot me in a crowd is “carapace”.
And now! Some Buzzfeed clone tells me that all my relief was premature, and just when I was ready to go to the ball it’s my turn to be the pumpkin again. Well, the joke’s on them, because this ain’t my first time at the rodeo. With the benefits of experience and cynicism I’ve managed to narrow my options down to the following possibles:
- On my 30th birthday, I will prick my finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel and transform into some kind of Peg Powler-esque hag with skin the colour of pond scum from living in the river (not the Rideau River because that shit will kill you).
- My apartment will rear up on chicken legs, I will sprout a nose like a carrot, and together we’ll roam the land in search of interesting vice.
- Some kind of Cow Goddess, I guess? I think I’m hoping to get the lower half of the cow because I’ll have four stomachs, but on the other hand if it was the head I could trade myopia for the come-hither bovine affect, and not so many farmers fiddling around with my nether regions or turning me into Big Macs.
The future’s so bright, I gotta wear shades (at least until I have my cow-eyes).
By my estimate I’ve got 3 more years before I complete my devolution into some kind of hagatesse, after which it’ll be no rest for the wicked. Honestly, people complain about the Selfie Generation, but in a world where everything gives you cancer (like the Rideau River) and I now have to think about Second Puberty mowing me down like a freight train, it’s like you have to Instagram-filter the living daylights out of things just to keep your chin up (literally, because surprise! You have jowls now).
So if this story has a morale, it’s probably “Always expect to be a swamp monster, because at the very least you’ll never be disappointed, and occasionally you may even be pleasantly surprised. And think of all the swamp friends you’ll make!”