Our attempt to see "There Will Be Blood," was thwarted Friday night when we realized that the 8:30 showing wouldn't let out until 11:30. And so we ended up in a theatre packed with folks of every age to watch "Juno." Not the most accurate vision of teenage pregnancy, but clever and sweet nonetheless. The couple next to us walked out in the first ten minutes, shortly after the hilarious Juno described her obsession with boys and their running shorts. I think it was "pork swords" that pushed them over the edge.
Even though it was a diverse crowd, there was a huge contingent of teenagers. I always get a little sad and wistful whenever I'm around groups of young hoodie-clad women clutching their cellphones and their tiny bags and whispering urgently to each other. I can barely look at them, especially when the SU points out the obvious. "Jesus," he always says. "That's our future." And in my head I scream, "For the love of fish and chips, macaroons, and malted milk balls...noooooooooooooooo!"
It's unfair of me to pass judgement on this teenage tribe. First of all because I was once a card-carrying member. Second, I know they, like all of us, simply find comfort and security in the ways they are alike, and I know this is not bad in and of itself. But every once in awhile I see one who is different in some can't-quite-put-a-finger-on-it way. It's something about the way she doesn't abuse a flat iron, something about the way she doesn't seem as invested in playing follow the leader, something about the way she keeps a book or a journal in her purse instead of five kinds of lip gloss, something about the way her existence doesn't appear to depend on the next text message she receives.
I don't know. But when I see a girl like that, I always secretly (well, not so secretly NOW) hope: Maybe THAT's our future.