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“the fickle power of teenage girlhood,” a temporary currency, according to my mother.
I was the best, most beautiful, sweet and pretty, astonishing and iconic.
Her favorite show, The Real Housewives, her favorite city, Beverly Hills, because, she said, “those gals are actually loaded.”
I’m old enough to know that this is how true transformation works, in increments so small you don’t notice until one day you wake up and realize you’ve changed.
Salvation is incremental, a smattering of small braveries.
the most popular soul belonged to a beautiful girl with a dead father and domineering mom, a girl with a heart-shaped face, a sex tape, reality show, celebrity wedding, and slim, ribless waist, giant ass. When she declared she wanted to be a lawyer, to fight for the rights of the wrongly accused, people said it was impossible. But impossible is what we loved her for, followed and paid her for. It was only when she wanted to be smart, useful, that we wondered if she could.
It’s a privilege, to age, I see that now.