I Was A 27-Year-Old Teenager On A Mission! (Pt. 7: Things That Go Crunch)

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: What is the dorkiest hairdo you sported in your youth? Chime in at the bottom, after the post! -- Erin :)

(Continued from yesterday . . . )

Friday, July 15, 2005

2:13 p.m.

Finally, the escalators and I have come to an understanding. It's smooth sailing all the way down to three, where I spot more teen specimens and hop off the slowest, least scary ride on earth. The new teenagers are three awkward, skinny ones. No one tries to jumpstart a dance party or keep stale slang alive, but they do poke each other and giggle. (Don't worry. No matter how badly I want to blend at the book discussion, I will not sink to poking minors.)

If these teens are any indication, I should've dressed much worse today. They are, quite simply, a fashion nightmare. One boy is wearing the ugliest, air-brushed KISS t-shirt I've ever seen and sporting a hairdo to match. How to describe it? Hmm. For starters, it's what my girlfriends back home call a "cut-it." And more specifically, it's like Robert Plant's mane, not so much in his sweat-drenched (and surely STD-laden) Houses of the Holy heyday, but more like Plant's hair right NOW! Or now! Or now! And definitely now! Only with oil slicks enduced by puberty instead of stage lights. (By the way, I don't know why I am so amused by all those photos of Robert Plant looking elderly, busting a move, wearing a tux, having a one-sided staring contest with some dude, etc., but I am. What's odd is if you look at his photo gallery, you'd think he was Sting or Paul Simon, not some guy who was famous for Tolkien-inspired blues rock and -- what's the legendary story? -- having women defile fish?)

Anyway, Cut-It Boy's tragic girlfriend is actually wearing a neon yellow Kill Bill jersey. Her pimples school my sporadic adult acne on what zits really are. I feel like the Noxema girl by comparison. Still, the kids look happy. It's summer, school is out, and they roam freely in the wild. Come to think of it, I'm impressed they chose the library, although I have no doubt they're just here to chat on the public computers with fellow fans of the Insane Clown Posse (that's a band, Mom) (but just barely).

2:15 p.m.

All this research and riding is making me hungry again. Good thing I have an apple in my bag. But wait! Not even I -- the twentysomething married chick on her third career who is gearing up to fib her way into a teen book club -- is ballsy enough to eat an apple in the library. Apples are the loudest food on earth. Louder than chips and salsa. Louder than bombs. No, I couldn't risk it.

At least not here in my current spot, I couldn't. A security guard has been pacing back and forth for the past 15 minutes. Someone must have tipped him off about the Slimfast incident. The only place without security is the restroom in the basement, and silly me, I have this thing about eating and drinking near toilets. Namely, I think it's nasty with a capital N. In fact, no matter how bad I need to pee in a bar, I will chug my vodka soda before hitting the stalls, so as not to bring the glass in with me.

Thus, it appears I'm headed back to the streets of Chicago for a while. Oh, but how tempting the idea of sneaking an apple in the library. I'm not making any promises, but if I see a good hiding place on the way out, I may have to go for it.

2:21 p.m.

I am getting cocky, now. I admit it. But I think I have every right, because I just totally ate an apple in the library! That's right. I am the Ultimate Snack-Sneaking Champion. Here's how it went:

After asking a security guard, "Can you tell me where the nearest library is . . . I mean, nearest restroom?" (because I am just that suave around men in uniforms), I took a quick potty break. And I hatch all my best plans on the pot. The ninth floor! I realized mid-flush. There's nobody up there! A serial killer could eat an apple up there and no one would be the wiser!

So back up I went. This time a man and woman, fellow twentysomethings, were quietly reading. (These were actual young adults. Couldn't I discuss I Can't Tell You with them?) I crossed my fingers they were too engrossed in Ulysses or War and Peace to hear me and retrieved the fruit from under a pamphlet about the Chicago Parks District's summer programs (canoeing! camping! more canoeing!). I bit in, bracing myself for the sound of that first crunch echoing off the hallowed halls of the atrium. I was in such a hurry to eat the apple before getting caught, I accidentally bit off more than I could chew. Literally. (God, please. I do not want to die this way, choking on an apple. At least let it be a tortilla chip. And let it be 70 years from now.)

Once I finally swallowed, I realized it was silent in the atrium. My chomp had been loud, but surprisingly, mercifully, there was no echo. No security guards sprang out from behind the planters, guns blazing. When snappily dressed people walked by, I only half-heartedly lifted the parks brochure to conceal the apple core.

Hold on. Is it possible I'm wrong about this no-eating-in-the-library law? Could city planners be hard at work on a fourth-floor food court as we speak? Whatever. Details schmetails. These are the facts: I am brave. I am proud. And I am full(ish) again. Also, I would make a terrible James Bond.

(To be continued . . . Tune in on Monday, when I may actually make it into the book discussion. That is, if I don't get distracted by thinking about Ratt and revolving doors again.)