I am chick lit: Incident at P.S. 41 rocks my world
By Jenny Klion
Oh My God! Stop the presses! Important revelations have come to pass! Despite the seemingly endless array of contemporary female-friendly novels, stories, memoirs, essays and other forms of written entertainment available for purchase wherever books are sold, theres no need to shop any further. According to L.A. Frannie, I am the real thing. Yes, Frannie believes that I, J. K., am chick lit itself.
I guess I must have made about eight calls to my best girlfriend that day, most of which were devoted to my latest domestic love & sex challenge, sparked into play by a hearsay incident at the P. S. 41 playground. Wait Im not talking about the recent moment when I finally ran into Edgy (special thanks to my insightful, delightful work neighbor for shortening the Greeks previous moniker, i.e., Edgy Lover.). He was linked at the elbows with his new hot (not!) girlfriend and the dude merely nodded to me in acknowledgement of my greeting. Despite the fact that I was carrying a plastic container of bugs from my garden (dont ask), I couldnt help but freeze, mouth agape and watch the two (and their dog), walk away, right past the turkey man at the end of the farmers market row on Hudson and 12th Sts. (O.K., Edgy did finally stop and brief introductions were endured by all, but
No, Im not talking about that particular humiliation as my latest domestic love & sex challenge. Nor am I referring to my chick-lit-esque-type rejection from makeover-worthy status at Vigor magazine. (In fact, young Misty wanted to know how Id been able to track down her e-mail address. Uh, YOU GAVE IT TO ME! I responded.) And finally, I promise Im not dialoguing about my most recent summer stunner either, wherein I was literally run down by an oblivious bike rider at the corner of 12th St. and Greenwich Ave.! (Dont let it change who you want to be, suggested a not-so-innocent bystander afterwards.) Now that hurt!
Instead, the cathartic incident I am referring to revolves around the fact that Judys mothers helper, the sophisticated and lovely 15-year-old Alexandra, was seen kissing her new adorable, curly-haired, seriously young looking boyfriend in the P.S. 41 playground after school last week. To be fair, Alex did later tell me that some third grader was being mean to everyone that day, and it was he who made them do it. And though I chewed on that clarification for several hours afterwards, suffice it to say that Judys mutually agreed-upon bedtime story that night was entitled, How You Were Born.
Perhaps 20 years ago, when the world was still documented in black and white, it might have been sufficient pedagogy to jump from a picture/description of an egg and a sperm to, and I quote, When they join together, a special cell is formed. But that night, in living color, the real question remained, and Judy put it quite pithily when she wondered aloud, But how do the sperm and egg join together?
My mother never told me how to make a baby, though she denies this notion vehemently. As I remember it, at a youthful 3 or 4, I was sitting in on my (much) older sisters sex talk. Family history takes over at this point, however, and insists I soon ran out of the room screaming, Eeew blood! (And that was the whole of my sex education.)
Neertheless, Judy is testament to the fact that Ive since learned how babies are made, and now its my turn to pass the torch, so to speak. That memorable night, upon Judys nonstop prodding, she and I discussed kissing and touching, breasts and hair, bleeding and feeling good, pregnancy and avoidance of pregnancy. At the end, exhausted yet riding the tide, proud of my nights accomplishments, I was nontheless relieved to finally recite an ol parental stand-by: But youre not old enough for any of this yet, Judy.
Thats good, she sighed.