Confessions from a Former Fraud

 

I used to be 22 and from California, with a 90210 zipcode to boot. Thanks to my friend, Jose, who “works” in MacArthur Park in downtown LA, I temporarily led a life most teens could only dream about.

Exclusive clubs on Hollywood Blvd were no longer just figments of my imagination. And it was all thanks to my little plastic piece of freedom. During my internship in Los Angeles this past summer, my fake ID became my passport to some of the best night life in the world; my constant companion guaranteeing me a good time.

Now let’s not get it twisted, at the ripe young age of nineteen I knew how to control myself. I was no Lindsay Lohan, stumbling out of the hottest clubs a hot mess. In my mind, I was simply using my new “identity” as a ticket to gain access… My ID was my in.

But nothing gold can stay, and through a series of highly unfortunate and ridiculous events I was thrown back to underage and uncool status not once, but twice… And let me say, being 19 again hurt.

The first time my ID was taken away, by a cop no less, my quest to gain back my over-21 status resembled that of an addict fiending for their next fix. I simply could not live until I was 22 again. No matter the cost, I’d pay it; no matter the danger, I’d go.

Being without a car, I’d literally beg anyone with a set of wheels to drive me to Central LA  - becoming “that girl” to most of the people I interned and lived with who were mostly of age. But I couldn’t stop myself. I just couldn’t handle the idea of no longer being able to go out while everyone else was having “the best night ever!” This marked the beginning of my obsession with the fear of missing out, or as I lovingly call it: F.O.M.O.

It was like I had prematurely experienced what being 21 had to offer and I just could not go back to the way my weekends were before… What was behind the velvet rope simply could not be unseen.

…I was also in straight-up denial. To anyone who would listen I would preach my so-called maturity, wiseness beyond my years and the “unfairness” of the drinking age. It was all quite pathetic, really.

Finally summer drew to a close and I went back to school, where, let’s face it, no one needs a fake ID for a good time. I was back on track, I was with my people: my underage comrades facing a world that told us “you’re too young.”

And then SXSW happened. In the weeks prior to Austin’s weeklong festival I had made a wish-list of sorts, filled with my favorite DJs, bands and comedians coming to town. As the festival drew closer, each and every entertainer was scratched off the list due to the fact that they were all 21-plus events.

I was crushed. But more importantly that fiendish feeling was back. My absolute need to become of age was at it’s height when I watched a show from an alley outside a crappy bar. I vowed to never experience that pathetic feeling again. Jamming by the trash is just not cool.

What I learned from that week was to not come back to SXSW until I was 21, legitimately. Why put myself through that torture? At my age, I simply did not belong there. It was the equivalent of locking Amy Winehouse in a liquor store with no means of escape. It’s just not a good idea.

It’s been a slow process, but I’m learning to embrace my age. My real age. This is the prime of my life, or so I’ve heard. Nineteen is the perfect time to be young and stupid, no forged identity required.

Update: I have another fake and cannot be stopped. Oops.

Deconstructing Prince Charming

My friend Jess’ absolute favorite movie has a rating of 27% on Rotten Tomatoes, the movie critic website that calculates how good or bad a movie is by piling together reviews from different writers all over the world. When probed what other kind of movies she enjoys, Jess, who can best be described as a tough chick from Brooklyn, turns on the ‘tude and tells me to respect her adoration for cheesy romantic comedies or else I’d get hit.

Fast forward a few weeks after Jess threatening to punch me and we are sitting in front of my friend’s flat screen about to watch Julia Stiles pout and purse her lips for an hour and a half.

Now there wasn’t anything particularly special about The Prince and Me plot-wise or even with the caliber of acting, but we all found ourselves getting more and more emotionally invested in the story centered around a buff playboy prince who falls in love with a strong-willed American girl who just wants to go to John Hopkins for med school, gosh!

It’s no surprise the movie was a commercial success; it followed the almost scientific equation to winning the hearts of the female demographic. Turn a spoiled prince into a sweetheart with the power of love, and you’ve got box office gold.

According to Rhonda Woodward, author of four historical romance novels, the top three qualities women like to see in their leading men are muscles, handsomeness and intelligence. With this statement in mind, think about your favorite romantic hero be it Mr. Darcy or Lloyd Dobler. Does he have any of these traits Woodwart mentioned? Most generally well-liked men in romantic fiction embody at least one, if not all, of these qualities.

At any given time, there is a wide array of different types of romantic films to drag your significant other to – your staple romantic comedies, period pieces or every single movie Hugh Grant has ever starred in.

If you’re more of a curl-under-the-covers-with-a-book type, you should just see the money romance novels are pulling in year after year, no matter how crappy the economy is. According to Romance Writers of America’s website, even with the challenges facing the publishing world such as fewer bookstores and online piracy, romance novels were still the number one genre in fiction, taking in over a billion dollars in revenue in 2008.

But the big question is, why? In real life it is rare to see a beautiful, smart yet headstrong woman fall for the beefy dude who kidnapped and held her for ransom, so why do we fall for fiction where just this happens?

Or what about the common storyline on FictionPress.com, a website where amateur writers can publish their stories, of falling in love with your brother’s best friend but, oh no, you’re from completely different social circles in high school.

While we might roll our eyes at plots such as these, there is definitely an audience for this kind of work, with the most recent count of stories under the romance category on FictionPress coming in at an astounding 67,440. While these statistics don’t come as a surprise, there’s something to be said about the women, myself included, who love the romantic genre in general.

I’ll admit, reading stories about prince charming gives me an unrealistic expectation when it comes to dating and relationships. Finding my own personal Edward Cullen is just something that I have to accept is never going to happen.

But that didn’t stop me from reading the Twilight series, (I was 17, OK) with it’s combined total of thousands of pages of nonsense. And I guess that’s really the point, knowing that it’s all just unrealistic fun and taking every movie with Jennifer Aniston or book about love at first sight with a grain of salt.