sundog

January 10, 2009

Oh, she’s only 17

Filed under: My Life — happychick @ 6.38p01

The Followill brothers of Kings of Leon had it right. I’m officially over being underage and can’t say the word “seventeen” without distaste.

It all started with the Irishman. Now, my love affair with the Irish- the land, the people, the accent, really only came to prominence over the past year, whilst studying the poetry of Seamus Heaney (arguably the greatest Irish poet who ever lived). It was like when you hear a term or a phrase for the first time, and suddenly you’re noticing it everywhere. I watched the movie P.S. I Love You with great delight, had extensive talks with the Irish priest at my school, and started meeting Irish people everywhere. It’s uncanny, and it’s the sort of occurrence that makes me believe a little in the paranormal.

So the town my parents live in now is home to a whole heap of immigrants, working in the harsh Australian climate for residency and very good money.

A lot of these immigrants are Irish.

The Irish accent is a lot to me like heaven. For anyone who’s seen the crackpot British comedy Black Books (starring Dylan Moran, who is, coincidentally, Irish), I react to the Irish accent much in the same way Fran Katzenjammer reacts to the voice of her old university acquaintance- it can “melt me at 20 paces”.

To put it crudely, if you’re Irish, I’m yours.

So, the encounter with the Irishman (don’t lie, you’re dying to know). Let me put it to you in detail, a kind of Happychick Mills and Boon style thing. I work the self serve at the local supermarket, right? The Irishman comes along, good looking enough to make you look twice but not enough to make you drop your underwear, I start up a conversation (I get paid to, ok??). We talk about Ireland (what else?), and that I’m going to University in March. The Irishman, in his Irish-accent makes-me-drool kind of way makes an offhand comment about March being “far enough away”. He asks me if, in Uni, I’m going to take lots of drugs (is that what they do in Ireland?), and, laughingly, with what I think was a flirty but was probably just creepy hair-flick, tell him of course, “and I’ll have lots of orgies too”. Hahaha Happychick you’re so funny- and lame. Surprisingly, he still thought I was kinda cool (or maybe he was just horny). He asks me, so close I can smell his Irish cologne, when I’m going to go for a drink with him.

I can only think of three things;

1). How hot the irish accent makes me

2). The Kings of Leon song, “17”

3). How, if any Australian/English/American/Egyptian guy with teeth as crooked as his had hit on me, I’d be gone like a bullet

 

And I say, with another creepy hair-flick (I should really pin that fringe), “I’m a bit young”. It was like saying “I’m actually a man and have three kids”. Very awkward. He did this weird thing where he cocked his head to one side and asked me if I was 17. I nodded with a grimace. He recovered, asked for my number anyway (still horny? I think so.), and I dismissed him with “Maybe next time”. He laughed, did that cute irish thing with the nose wrinkle and said “Yeah, maybe next year”.

 

And that was that. I decided then and there to make a count-down calender until the day I can accept offers from guys (preferably Irish ones) for a drink, until the day I will no longer receive the grimace and apologetic step backwards that accompanies the phrase “underage”. Guys are scared of that, and I get it- to them, I’m still a child. A child they want to have sex with, but a child all the same. And no guy is that horny. (Take that back- a lot of guys are.)

 

I recognise that this is becoming a very long post but I’m still only halfway through my story.

 

The same sort of thing happened in the lunchroom at work today with Sam, the guy that works in the liquor store next door. I told him I couldn’t wait until my brithday, that I was going to have a huge party and it was going to be absolutely legendary. He said, “20 or 21?”. I, being the slow-on-the-uptake bimbo individual I am, cocked my head with what I can imagine was a really stupid expression. The woman across from me snorted her chicken back into her salad. “She’s only 17”- Gah! Very awkward. Sam gave me a stunned look, as though he’d been slapped with a dildo. I just laughed it off and went back to work.

 

In the end, being 17 SUCKS. I love being young and having all these years ahead of me, but let’s face it- I can’t drive, can’t buy my own booze, can’t go out to pubs or clubs- my age is like leprocy. I know I’m overreacting- I’ll be the first to admit it. But I’m OVER IT. I want an Irishman, dammit! X x x

 

P.S. As a footnote, whatever this thing is between me and Sam is a bit weird and confusing, and I’m not really sure how to handle it. Maybe I’m really lonely, lusting for a boyfriend, not just a guy. He’s nice, really nice, kind and funny and a bit of a goofball. He’s the sort of guy my parents would make fun of for being uncool, but would ultimately approve of because they wouldn’t think he’d make a move. Maybe I just go for the nerds, the “losers” (God knows my dating history shows that). Maybe he’s just the sort of guy I’d really really like to be good mates with. Who knows? Certainly not me.

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2 Comments »

  1. Uh, yeah. Whatever you post.

    Comment by Anonymous — March 31, 2014 @ 6.38p03

  2. You don’t impress me. I mean, you claimed that you were an old lady stuck in a seventeen-year-old body. But you sounded like you’re younger than seventeen. How shameful of you.

    Comment by Anonymous — June 13, 2014 @ 6.38p06


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