Teen-edgy
August 1, 2004 | 12:00am
Mary Kate and Ashley, a.k.a. the Olsen Twins, are no longer cute. Mary Kate, my current celebrity obsession is released after being treated for anorexia and interestingly, according to tabloids, a coke problem as well.
The Olsen twins were the dream team, being worth nearly a billion for their straight-to-video movies and fashion line at K-Mart. It’s ironic how these tots have made such a mudslide of bucks from what’s considered ground zero of celebrity purgatory. Now their Milk campaign ad has just been scrapped for issues of sensitivity. Either the milk dudes were freaked out over Mary Kate’s skeletal frame or maybe her milk mustache might earn jeers from creative minds as VCR (visible coke residue), there is no doubt that Mary Kate will be the new Anna Nicole Smith.
If you look at the teen queens of today such as the recently legal Lindsay Lohan, jailbait Hilary Duff and the legally blonde Paris Hilton, they leave no choice for the adolescent populace but to aspire to wear Versace and have their breasts done. I’m 24, not even old enough for my teenage cousins to call me ate, yet I’m saucer-eyed with disbelief. I once traipsed into a 15-year-old’s wardrobe screaming with Pucci wraps the color of summer cocktails, Hermes trinkets and bags by Balenciaga, and found myself Gucci green with envy.
This is not fair! When I was 14, my prized possession was a matching denim outfit from Esprit that I bought to honor my first trip to Hollywood. But these teen-edgies are fashionistas of a different kind. I once eavesdropped on a conversation with kids of some friends of mine. Again, they wore Pucci with Miss Sixty jeans, yakked how they have not had a proper manicure for a week almost and how they were gaining weight – lipo, one chimed in. Was this not the conversation that belonged to women who married men for money and who were only committed to dicking around? It was too bizarre.
These mini-matrons! OK, maybe I’m jealous that I have just been to D’Mall in Boracay over the summer and bought shell earrings instead of Jade Jagger Garrard rocks. If you remember one million years ago, an old episode of Sex and the City featured teens who acted like they were 30-year-old celebrities. Complete with publicists and VIP only Bar Mitzvahs, it painted an entertaining but wholly sad picture.
I was once told by a faux (fake friend, really a foe) that maybe I should slow down with the parties. Part of the nature of being a child is being stubborn and I insisted that I was mature enough to handle it. When you’re wearing bling and Gucci on a Monday night, you are deluded into thinking that yes you are mature. However, maturity really is about saving the bling and Gucci to at least a Thursday night. Just kidding.
Anyway, I guess I was a mini-matron too. Just poorer. I lived pretty fast, wearing red lipstick before my prime, tottering on high heels and swilling on champagne cocktails to the wee hours of the night kissing all the wrong boys. Looking back it looked sad. I probably knocked those puppies the wrong way, started crying when I got drunk and forgot my curfew.
Maybe my faux was right, despite her evil intentions to squash the zygote ingénue (Take heed mini-matrons! They do this!), it probably looked really bad. Now that I’m not much older and earning my own dough, it feels quite different from the buzz of yesteryear. The pressure is off to prove to yourself that you’re adult enough. You realize you can’t party like a rock star just because you realize you can’t afford it. You also realize that the best time to drink champagne (free from generous Christmas baskets) is at home wearing your pajamas while watching Ab Fab.
While the glaring banality of real life may neuter what fantasies we may have while growing up, it not so bad that we are doomed to live the vacant lives of the Maltese lap dog matrons who refuse to believe that the party’s over. Being a grownup is fun, just as it is growing up. However, nothing is more irreplaceable than the years of being a kid. Relax, you have plenty of time to be burdened by life later on and you will have the rest of your life to complain about it.
The Olsen twins were the dream team, being worth nearly a billion for their straight-to-video movies and fashion line at K-Mart. It’s ironic how these tots have made such a mudslide of bucks from what’s considered ground zero of celebrity purgatory. Now their Milk campaign ad has just been scrapped for issues of sensitivity. Either the milk dudes were freaked out over Mary Kate’s skeletal frame or maybe her milk mustache might earn jeers from creative minds as VCR (visible coke residue), there is no doubt that Mary Kate will be the new Anna Nicole Smith.
If you look at the teen queens of today such as the recently legal Lindsay Lohan, jailbait Hilary Duff and the legally blonde Paris Hilton, they leave no choice for the adolescent populace but to aspire to wear Versace and have their breasts done. I’m 24, not even old enough for my teenage cousins to call me ate, yet I’m saucer-eyed with disbelief. I once traipsed into a 15-year-old’s wardrobe screaming with Pucci wraps the color of summer cocktails, Hermes trinkets and bags by Balenciaga, and found myself Gucci green with envy.
This is not fair! When I was 14, my prized possession was a matching denim outfit from Esprit that I bought to honor my first trip to Hollywood. But these teen-edgies are fashionistas of a different kind. I once eavesdropped on a conversation with kids of some friends of mine. Again, they wore Pucci with Miss Sixty jeans, yakked how they have not had a proper manicure for a week almost and how they were gaining weight – lipo, one chimed in. Was this not the conversation that belonged to women who married men for money and who were only committed to dicking around? It was too bizarre.
These mini-matrons! OK, maybe I’m jealous that I have just been to D’Mall in Boracay over the summer and bought shell earrings instead of Jade Jagger Garrard rocks. If you remember one million years ago, an old episode of Sex and the City featured teens who acted like they were 30-year-old celebrities. Complete with publicists and VIP only Bar Mitzvahs, it painted an entertaining but wholly sad picture.
I was once told by a faux (fake friend, really a foe) that maybe I should slow down with the parties. Part of the nature of being a child is being stubborn and I insisted that I was mature enough to handle it. When you’re wearing bling and Gucci on a Monday night, you are deluded into thinking that yes you are mature. However, maturity really is about saving the bling and Gucci to at least a Thursday night. Just kidding.
Anyway, I guess I was a mini-matron too. Just poorer. I lived pretty fast, wearing red lipstick before my prime, tottering on high heels and swilling on champagne cocktails to the wee hours of the night kissing all the wrong boys. Looking back it looked sad. I probably knocked those puppies the wrong way, started crying when I got drunk and forgot my curfew.
Maybe my faux was right, despite her evil intentions to squash the zygote ingénue (Take heed mini-matrons! They do this!), it probably looked really bad. Now that I’m not much older and earning my own dough, it feels quite different from the buzz of yesteryear. The pressure is off to prove to yourself that you’re adult enough. You realize you can’t party like a rock star just because you realize you can’t afford it. You also realize that the best time to drink champagne (free from generous Christmas baskets) is at home wearing your pajamas while watching Ab Fab.
While the glaring banality of real life may neuter what fantasies we may have while growing up, it not so bad that we are doomed to live the vacant lives of the Maltese lap dog matrons who refuse to believe that the party’s over. Being a grownup is fun, just as it is growing up. However, nothing is more irreplaceable than the years of being a kid. Relax, you have plenty of time to be burdened by life later on and you will have the rest of your life to complain about it.
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