"It's so strange.” I mumbled, partially to myself and partially to my friend who was lounging on the bed behind me, calmly smoking a joint while I inspected my naked body in the full length mirror.
“What's strange?” She finally responded, rolling over on her stomach, her face reflecting in the mirror directly between my legs. Giggling, she tilted her head and stuck out her tongue.
“Cashmere!” I squealed, dancing away and facing her. I tugged on an oversized t-shirt depicting a gory Iron Maiden album cover scene across the front, and flopped down on the bed beside her, reaching out and taking the joint, pulling a long drag of sweet smoke into my lungs, holding it for a few seconds, and then laughing hysterically, little puffs of smoke escaping my lips as Cashmere attacked me with tickles.
“Now,” she said, taking the joint back into her slender, artistic fingertips “tell me what's so strange?”
I sighed, gathering my thoughts and trying to be serious.
“It's strange how we grow up. We start off as these hairless, squashy babies, decked out in ruffled underpants and polka dots, and then we grow into teenagers, with excessive body hair in places we didn't pay attention to until they up and sprouted, and we run around careless in our skinny bodies, boyish as can be without a thought to our hair or our clothes... and then we get to be 'adults' at eighteen, and we start shaving and waxing everywhere, meticulously dressing ourselves and doing our hair, complaining about extra weight around our middles and the massive state of our thighs, and it's like we're babies again, only babies don't realize they are squashy and ugly and hairless and wearing ruffled underpants. It's worse because we do it to ourselves intentionally, and we complain all the live long day, but deep down we know we love every blessed minute of our 'grown up' lives.” Satisfied in my rant, I took the joint back from Cashmere, drew a deep lungful of smoke, and laid back on the bed, pondering.
“Wow.” Cashmere rolled over and looked me in the eyes, hers reflecting what I knew mine would soon look like; somewhat bloodshot and glassy. “And here I thought, little Janie McPherson, that you had some great revelation to share with me.” With that we dissolved into giggles, laying there in a euphoric bliss, undisturbed by the world tossing recklessly around us, enjoying our little joke, and our lives, and the fact that we were squashy and hairless and wearing ruffled underpants, just like the babies we carried inside us would someday, if we had anything to say about it.