10 Oct G Day Story: Brooke
When Brooke Takhar was setting up her very first email account back in the mid 90’s, the name “missteenussr” popped into her head and she’s run with it ever since. (missteenussr.com) She is neither a beauty queen nor exotically European. She lives day to day hoping she can one day just do what she likes. She likes jeans, ponytails, songs with galloping drums, her husband, her monkey-faced daughter, the friends that buy her stuff, and cherry pie filling. Thanks for sharing your G Day Story, Brooke!
The year I turned ten, my family moved towns, I changed schools, and my parents separated then divorced. So, you know, a pretty boring year.
Despite all the upheaval at home, the loudest memory I have of that time is how excited I was to get my hair streaked. Sitting in a row beside grown up women (who shaved their legs!), wearing a thick rubber cap on my skull, and having individual strands of hair being violently pulled through it. The strong scent of the sour dye encasing my head; the glossy slippery magazines at my side; a whole day at the salon just blown. Oh man, my friends going to be JEALOUS.
The part of my brain that felt like curdled milk dealt with the rollercoaster of emotions by trying to be as normally normal as possible. I emulated Candace Cameron, the girl on TV with full cheeks and thighs like mine. Pleaded for new pegged Guess jeans, Esprit t-shirts and acid wash Converse.
Maybe if I had the BEST hair and clothing in school, a casting director would see me on the playground, whisk me to Hollywood to star in my own sitcom, and I would have a house with an above ground pool, and my Mom would be able to quit her job and brown in the sun all day. We would be okay.
My champagne wishes never did come true. The next few years were spent jumping from my bed at home, to my Dad’s basement suite where he only had skim milk (the horror!) to my grandparent’s acreage out in Aldergrove.
I spoke less at school, but really wanted to scream. I escaped through stacks of fragrant books I would read while walking home, dark matinee showings, and hours of television. I hated my own life so I just swooned over and leaned in on the “perfection” of others.
I wish I could tell that girl, nearly tripping over every crack in the sidewalk, that her own story could be great. Life is never what you think it will be, and that is something to be anticipated and cracked open.
Be yourself. Say hi. Look up. Look into people’s eyes.
Your story is fizzy and funny and you should yell it from the top of the windy playground. It may not be the life you dreamed of, but it’s yours to play with, and it will never, ever be boring.