Enfant Terrible

I knew the second coming of my adolescence was right around the corner when I started getting clinically gripped by the TV show Gossip Girl and shamelessly reading the novels in public places. It’s not okay. This makes self-help books on men such as He’s Not That Into You or the eternally modern The Rules seem like reasonable and mature reading choices in comparison.

I also started finding younger boys cute, which has never been in my book. I told Tim Yap we should throw a party called the Sleaze Ball; he didn’t comply with my request. Believe me, age is more than a number to me.

For years I have dated men way older than me. Glad I got out of my daddy complex. That’s the shoulder pads of dating.

Another good thing that has come with my teenage renaissance baggage is the fact you can have the best of both worlds. No more effing games anymore. No more waiting by the phone like a receptionist.

If he makes it hard, say bye-bye. The older you get the easier it is to crush a crush. So you can have crushes and not die. And the grand part: no more zits from falling in love.

One thing I particularly hated was that stupid courting thing. The fake group dates, fake blue roses and the awkward phone calls filled with allusions to your so-called hidden desire. It’s such a lie. I’d rather just know the facts and go with it. You can tell I’m not a fan of Harlequin romances. Although I love the flowers (as décor, except creepy blue roses which were the rage when I was in high school) and if there’s food involved, I’m also in.

I started getting off on watching cartoons, Facebook, drinking wine coolers, texting OMG a lot and wearing lots and lots of pink. As immature as I am, I seem to want to think that I have acquired a dose of sophistication over the years. Fine, maybe I had my very first salad five years ago. True story. Learned how to use chopsticks and eat sushi (which I eat practically every day now for Olsen reasons) only when I reached 20. I subsisted on spaghetti and fried chicken before that. Classic combo. Somebody kill me if I bejewel my cellphone. That’s a sure sign of the point of no return.

I also had a party and nobody came. It doesn’t get more high school than that. People can sniff and say I’m an over-the-hill tweener.

Now the inevitable downward spiral begins. The quarter life crisis — part two. Crisis has always been the most constant part of my life anyway.
So I felt that I should celebrate my tweendom by taking a class at Central Saint Martins.

No matter what, the classroom can reduce the most soignée woman of the world (not me) into a blushing schoolgiral. First days are tough. I was, of course, the last to arrive in class, proving many things have not changed. I’m early for everything else except class.

Then it was awkward, my perv of a teacher (more on that later) was not yet there. I introduced myself to everyone because nobody seemed to be talking and was met with tepid handshakes. Then they just stared at their pencil cases. Hello! We’re on our way to being 30!

I guess the nerd in us never dies.

Lunch was equally awkward — who sits with who? I chose the prettiest girl in class. Typical. She ended up being really friendly and suddenly I knew why — she was 18.

The hard part about having a teenage renaissance is that you don’t have the strength and endurance of a teenager. For one, a martini-fueled bender takes two days to heal. If you do something stupid, it is stupid. It’s no longer charming. It reminds me of a story by Dorothy Parker called “You Were Perfectly Fine.” It’s about a guy who blacks out during a major night and asks his female friend what happened that night and she offers him a drink to which he replies cheekily, “The hair of the Mastiff that bit me? No thanks.” She guides him through the night, to which he cringes as the story develops more and more. Then at the end the woman tells him he declared his love for her. He finds himself in an unexpected and unwelcome relationship.

That’s the only problem. As an adult you can get sued, pikot or both when you get frat-house drunk. You can’t chalk it up to stupidity, because with your 401K, mid-level job and mortgage... it’s just unbecoming.

Going from boardroom to bedroom can also be wooden affair. Excuse the pun. I have dated men in the past that treat dating like a negotiation. Even if you’re trashed and wearing a total slut (I love them) outfit in a bar that refuses to have a name, the conversation is quite predictable.

Slut: Hi, what are you drinking?

Nerd: Appletini.

Slut: Cool! What do you do?

Nerd: Banking. I hate it. You?

Slut: Fashion. I hate it.

Nerd: Where do you live?

Slut: Let’s go to my place.

Nerd: Sure. What’s your name?

Super-precious love story. Dinners can be so predictable. There’s actually an anti-dating movement going on. Hot guys refuse to go on dates. Of course, why should they? They can just copy my magnificent script on their palm and they’re ready to go.

Just like high school there are still the mean girls… although sometimes they are ex-wives or evil upper-management bitches (I’m lucky enough not to cross any). The outsiders... basically the people who are cooler than you. The only difference is that now the nerds rule and the cool guys are in rehab or have been deported somewhere. I can only name five cool guys from way back when who are still kinda cool now. The rest have meth face and violent tendencies — not an alluring combo.

So they say life is a cycle. So if you see yourself turning tween again, enjoy it. Just don’t date cool guys who show up with blue roses at your doorstep.