In an interview with the NYTimes, Katy Perry elaborates on what she imagines her gospel-aspiring, squeaky fifteen-year-old self would say to her camp persona today:
“I think the 15-year-old me would be excited and flabbergasted,” Ms. Perry said, “and also say, ‘Put on some clothes.’ ”
I think my fifteen-year-old self would look at me now and be horrified that I look exactly like my sisters (which isn’t a bad thing, IMO) and wonder how I can stomach making out with a guy with a beard (a guy who also happens to be the guy I dated when I was fifteen, long story, eat it, mom).
Thirty-year-old me would tell her that the baby barrettes and flannel look kind of gauche.
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More people should aspire to be Kat Bjelland.
What a fascinating question. Though I don’t have a good answer to it yet.
Fifteen-year-old me would be like, “Gay?! Married?!” and not know which part was more of a surprise.
Fifteen-year-old me would probably be jealous of what I have now, since at that point I had not yet broken out of my shell. I was emo before emo, I regret to say. My life revolved around my then-girlfriend, who was as withdrawn and socially awkward as I was.
Wow, what a thing to think about! I think 15 year old me would be pretty happy with 30 year old me. I have a sweet car, a grumpy yet lovey hubby, two sweet baby boys, and a pretty awesome job. I have complaints ’cause its fun to complain, but I have a pretty ok life!
Katy Perry is not nearly far enough away from her fifteen-year-old self yet to have perspective.
My fifteen year old self would say “Wow, your boobs haven’t fallen completely below your kneecaps after all!”
I’m 19, so I can’t really say what my 15-year-old self would say to my 30-year-old self.
Fifteen-year-old me would be a hell of a lot more impressed with me than….43-year-old me. How messed up is that? Fifteen-year-old me would think I was really cool for an older woman (and would lust after my bass guitar—what I jokingly call my “mid-life crisis project” to poke fun at the idea that those of us over 40 shouldn’t learn new things or should have given up our dreams as a conditional part of “growing up”). She’d marvel at the relationship between me and my daughter—that mothers and daughters can actually be close. She’d want to hang out here all the time, since the food is good, there’s tons of CDs to listen to (fifteen-year-old me made mixtapes up the wazoo) and well-loaded bookshelves that fifteen-year-old me would beg to borrow. Fifteen-year-old me would think I was a badass for working in a “man’s job” and being a union officer. She’d be proud of me for staying radical, and still dressing “young” (translation: midwest casual—blue jeans and T-shirts).
Wish I could go back and tell fifteen-year-old me that life will get better…it’s just gonna take awhile. She could have benefited from that.
Fifteen-year old me would be pleased I was doing science and working with NASA and all that — she knew she wanted to do astronomy by then, and she’d always known she’d be a scientist. She’d probably be a bit surprised about the whole ‘being a lesbian’ thing, but she never cared much about romance or sex. By that time in her life, she’d know some of the friends twenty-six-year-old me still has, and would be surprised to see them older. Living on her own might daunt her — IIRC, either last Christmas or the one coming up was when she lost a wallet containing over a hundred dollars while out buying presents. She’d probably argue with me on politics, because she was fifteen and thought she knew everything, when Mom sheltered her as much as possible from our actual working-class-ness, and she was otherwise a middle-class white kid who passed as straight, but she’d agree on the basics.
She’d also probably park herself on my couch to read all my books, and I’d have to remind her not to bend the spines too much. Or just give her the hardcovers, which she never could afford as a high schooler.
Ha! Fifteen-year-old me would say “why are you a DUDE?”
It’s actually really funny to think about what that conversation would be like. I’d love to go back and talk to myself about having some self-confidence; that took me far too long to cultivate.
@theresa: So a young woman can’t have changed at all since she was 15, and have any interesting surprises or good advice or anything to her younger self. Cause young women=teenagers still. Riiight.
I’m 21, and i’d tell myself that things would get better. That I was smarter than I gave myself credit for. That I’m exactly where I want to be, pretty close to what my dream was then. That I’ve travelled to other places, have enough money to do the things I want, that I have escaped from the parents, that I have power over my own life. Also to dump that git now. You’re hot and cool and can get someone else who likes you.
I think 15 year old me would be really impressed actually. I’d just have to start explaining my research and watch her eyes go wide.
Norbizness, part of me still aspires to be Kat Bjelland.
Not 30, but I think 15-year-old me would be really thrilled– and surprised– to know that I am alive and happy! The world as I know it continued existing when I went to college, I didn’t end up friendless, I’m doing stuff I like. I think 15-year-old me would be encouraged.
15 year old me would feel both proud and embarrassed by 25 year old me. Also she would judge me now to be both too weird and too normal, at the same time.
And current me would advise 15 year old me to 1) stop worrying so much about what people think 2) stop wanting to “grow up” so badly and wishing time to fly by.
I was 15 less than two years ago, so not much difference over here. I think I would mostly be in awe that I was writing for an actual, literal feminist blog.
I’m nineteen. fifteen year old me would be shocked to know that I don’t have a boyfriend and I like it that way. Fifteen year old me would be kicking my ass for getting bad grades and ditching class. Fifteen year old me would be thrilled because of the work that I do for repro justice. Fifteen year old me would jump for joy because there are no longer pants in my closet. Fifteen year old me would so proud that I said no to my mother and did what I wanted with my own life. Oh and to theresa, just because we are young still doesn’t mean that we couldn’t have any perspective. Since you clearly do not understand the way maturation works, you do a lot of growing up between the ages of fifteen and twenty-six. In fact by that age you won’t be doing much more maturing. So please stop your ageist attitude and be nonjudgmental
15 year old me would be all “You’ve been living in [midwestern state with bad reputation] for YOUR ENTIRE ADULT LIFE????”
But she’d like my clothes and be impressed with my job.
“In fact by that age you won’t be doing much more maturing. ”
*snort* (in a loving kind of way)
So says the 19-year-old with all the confidence in the world.
My 15-year-old self would like to know why my 43-year-old self got so fat. And what’s with this smoking and drinking? She would absolutely die to know that I smoke chronic. But she would be endlessly thrilled that I am still a tomboy. She would be happy that there are no men in my life, that I gave up religion and being a good-girl, and that I finally learned to speak my mind.
Q grrl, I meant at katy perry’s age, not my own. I know I’ve still got a lot of growing up to do, regardless of whether or not my own parents say that I was born forty and never needed a day of raising in my life
@rebekah – I’m pretty sure Q Grrl would agree that 26 is NOT the age at which the maturation process ends. I’m 29, and I sure as hell expect to do quite a bit more growing and maturing…
Sometimes I still feel a little bit like 15 year old me, and thinking about what 15 year old me would think of 29 year old me is interesting. I’m not sure if she’d be impressed with where I am and what I’m doing or not. Probably a mixture of both. If I could I’d tell her to break out of her shell a little more and say “yes” to more opportunities.
15 year old me would be shocked to find out I still live with my parents, and would think I would have had way more fun by now
rebekah: no, I was thinking more along the lines that if, in my twenties, I had realized that I have a lifetime to mature and that it will happen at its own damn pace, I might not have been so chronically and paralyzingly depressed.