I was like any typical fifteen year old growing up in the late 1990’s. I was in love with Leonardo DiCaprio. Swoon. I mean, wasn’t he just so dreamy in Romeo and Juliet, and forget about Titanic, um…to die for!
My walls were lined with posters of Leo like this one.
Just when every teenage girl thought they couldn’t love Leo anymore, Titanic came out. The combination of Jack and Rose’s courtship, highlighted with the haunting score of violins playing in the background as they stood together at the front of the boat intertwining hands was almost too much for any young girls heart.
I mean, could Leo be anymore dreamy than he already was. Why, yes, yes he could, and he did it so well, didn’t he?
Back then, Leo was my go-to celeb crush, and it stayed that way well into my twenties. I remember catching Titanic on TBS or some other cable channel, and having to stop whatever I was doing to experience Jack and Rose’s love affair one more time (and probably for the thousandth time.)
Recently I flipped the television on to find Leo’s face as none other than Jack Dawson staring back at me. I got excited when I discovered that the movie had just started. Matt was at work, my homework was done, and I had nothing else on my agenda but watching Titanic.
Fifteen minutes went by and I couldn’t help but have the following thoughts:
“Geez, Leo’s a bit scrawny, eh?”
“He looks like he’s about sixteen.”
“This movie is kind of corny.”
I continued to watch and willed myself to enjoy it, but I found that I was distracted. I was checking my email, texting Matt, and going on Facebook. Could it be…Was I over Leo?
After an hour of Titanic, I couldn’t deny it anymore. I was not only over Leo, but I couldn’t understand how I was ever into him to begin with. He was skinny and feminine, his hair was greasy, and he seemed immature to me now.
This could only mean one thing: I had grown out of Leo.
And Leo isn’t the only thing I’ve grown out of. As I approach thirty, I’ve been noticing other things that I’m over…
I used to live for jotting down my feelings in notebooks. I haven’t done it in years, but recently when we moved into our new apartment, I came across a journal from about seven years ago. There was a quote scribbled on the cover, and as I read it, I couldn’t help but feel that it was indulgent, childish, and dramatic. As I held it in my hand, I cringed so much that I wanted to burn it or throw it away. I never did get rid of it and instead tucked it away into a drawer, but not without looking up who coined the awful quote first. When I googled it, I found that it was none other than the bratty Avril Lavigne. Figures. I don’t have any intention of starting another journal anytime soon; I guess I’m just kind of over it, and that’s what my blog is for now. I can only hope that a few years from now I don’t look back on this thing and cringe….
So, I’m not talking about a little hand holding. Holding hands is totally fine by me. Matt and I hold hands all the time. What I am talking about are the groping teenagers on the subway, sitting on their boyfriends laps and making out, as his hand creeps up the back of her shirt. Gross. Something has happened to me over the last few years. Public displays of affection make me uncomfortable. It used to not bother me at all, but now…well, it makes me want to look away or scream, “Where is your mother when you’re behaving that way?”
I used to listen to my music really, really loud. However, now I can’t stand to have music blaring loud. I can’t concentrate. I can’t think. It makes me want to rip my hair out. I also don’t like shopping at places where they play music too loud, because get this, I can’t shop properly! Recently I went into Abercrombie and Fitch and between the screaming music, extremely strong perfume that they spray all over everything, and the dim lighting, I didn’t last but thirty seconds. There is proof that my distaste for the store has everything to do with my age, because I loved that store something terrible not even ten years ago.
So, you’re probably going, “Pork?!! Huh???” But yeah…pork. This is perhaps the biggest sign of me being a real grown up. When I was younger I used to loathe pork chops. Like, with a passion. When my mom would make it for dinner, she would have to make me a hot dog because I refused to eat it. In the last two years, I’ve noticed my tastes in food changing; a little gorgonzola here (which I used to hate) a little goat cheese there (which I used to think tasted like feet, but now love), but perhaps the most shocking change has been pork. Sometimes when I’m eating it, I’m like, “Who am I?” I used to vow to never ever eat pork, but here I am, eating pork and developing the palate of, well, an older and more adult-ish person.
Pictures by IMDB