Cheddar Bunnies For Nora.

...Kinda like Blueberries For Sal.

...Only with less bears.

Ten Years Later.

I'm not much of a Bandwagon-Jumper...nor am I inclined to be a Dolores Downer (my Mom's name is Deb- and she's rather peppy), but I'd be extremely remiss in not acknowledging the 10th anniversary of September 11th.

It seems like everywhere I turned yesterday, there were flag wavers, remembrances of the day, and country lyrics galore.

Well, I have no country lyrics for you (except, randomly, I do have Folsom Prison Blues stuck in my head), and the only flag I have is miniature, left over from the Fourth, and has recently been confiscated from my toddler and her attempts to impale the cat.

I guess that leaves us with my tale of Where Were You. Even though, frankly, it's completely unimportant in the grand scheme of events and wholly unrelated to anything that was going on in New York, Pennsylvania, or Washington, D.C.

I was 21 and a senior at Hampshire College, on a tiny apple orchard in the middle of Amherst, MA. I was a teaching assistant for a theatre class- it took place at 10:30am or some other ridiculously late in the morning hour (but for which I remember lamenting my "early" bedtime of midnight the evening prior). My mother called and woke me that morning- but honestly, all I recall was the panic in her voice over a plane crash and her pleading with me to stay safe. (And in the bubble of The Valley, it was really, really hard to feel anything but.) So, honestly, I didn't give it as much attention as I ought to have. Until I turned on the common area TV and saw the second plane hit.

And it was so weird- SO weird- that I simply went about the rest of my morning prep. I was extremely shocked and worried, of course, but in the protective cocoon of my life up until that moment, I had no basis for the type of horror I was witnessing.

I walked to class. All around me people were moving like zombies and waiting for someone to tell them that Things Were Okay.

We sat in class for about ten minutes- and I swear to God, some of the students were looking to me for direction. (Really? I barely know the syllabus I helped to create. I'm hardly a source of authority for an American crisis.) Our professor eventually dismissed us all- and it turns out that all of the day's classes had been cancelled as well- so I went back to Mod 96. (Aside to non-Hampshirites; that's what on-campus apartments were called. Ours had a balcony, a God Door, a catwalk and...other details completely irrelevant to the story.)

My roommates and I remained glued to our TV, unsure as to what to do...but feeling though it was our job to keep watching. Some of my best friends hailed from NYC, and their panic was mine as they were unable to reach their parents for hours. Someone brought out a bottle of whiskey and- though I much prefer vodka with a mixer of some sort- I'll admit that I did a shot or two.

The rest of the day (and that week) was a blur. And not due entirely to the whiskey. We all felt a mix of sadness and unease that eventually made way to a sense of national pride (extremely rare at our age/demographic/enrollment at a hipster college where dissatisfaction and too-cool-for-schoolitude was de rigeur). 

(And that pride inevitably led to bafflement and outrage, but that's another story, too.)

But like I said, my story- one of safe, secure, witnessing- has virtually no impact on the day's events.

Except that it ties me into the fabric of a society that remembers.

These Are My Current Events, Darnit.

THIS is what "30s With Kids" looks like.
Hoodies and kitchen floors.
Nary a sensible handbag.

Okay, now I'm not one to dwell [overmuch, publicly] on things, but...

Seriously. The ending of the seventh Harry Potter movie (Part 2, if you will, of The Deathly Hallows). And I swear that this is not a spoiler. Not unless you like wardrobe choice to be a tightly held secret. (Like a royal wedding!)

Yeah, yeah, Voldemort (we can say his name now, yes?) and Snape and Harry Potter and yesyesyes, all of that.

But that last scene on the train platform? Nineteen years have passed. The "kids" are sending their own kids off to Hogwarts. They are a mere five years older than I am at the very time of this posting.

So why are they so frumpy and old-looking?

It looks like they're playing dress-up. Ginny Weasley has a sensible bob and the mommiest purse I've ever seen in my life. Ron has a paunch and a wide forehead. Harry has prosthetic wrinkles (wrinkles!!) and a blazer. HERMIONE HAS HER HAIR IN A FRENCH TWIST.

Seriously. I understand that they needed some props to age these youngsters, but really? P.J. and I discussed what we'd be wearing if we drove to the train station to see our kids off to boarding school; jeans and hoodies. Same as we wear every day. And sure, the Harry Potter kids have been wearing that very outfit since movie One. So it wouldn't really have the aging effect the studio was looking for, I get that.

But there is an awfully big difference between looking 36 and looking 76. (There is, isn't there? Tell me there is. Would I look that old on a train platform? Tell me my butt wouldn't look that wide as I embraced by 11 year-old. TELL ME.)

I saw this movie exactly a week ago. And I am haunted- HAUNTED- by this scene. Basically what the film industry is telling me is that- barring turning yourself into some sort of "real" housewife or glamorously and vigorously anti-aging yourself into a Botoxed wonder- the rest of us jerks look like this in their mind's eye.

At 36.

I am going Sexy Purse shopping.

City Kid Takes The Train.