POSTED September 24, 2009

In Which Molly Young’s Journey To Israel Makes A Platonic Crunch « This Recording ⚓

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After the noises and the Plan we sit silently for a moment. Dad examines his midsection, poking the flesh that billows slightly over the waistband of his jeans, palpating it disapprovingly. ‘Everyone has a muffin-top,’ I say, exhibiting my own. I am acting very daughterly, which is something I do too often for my age.

Even when I am not with Dad, I tend to act like Scout Finch. Boyish, loyal, charmingly impertinent. It is a good defense against sexual attention, albeit one not convincingly maintained past the age of sixteen. Yet I revert to it often because it is the only way for a pretty girl to be friendly but not inviting; generous but not suggestive.

If I looked anything but the way I do, the daughterly act would be a freakish one. Like Baby Jane with her strawberry ice cream cones. But it works because I am small and small-featured. So many of our habits and experiences are determined by these details of physiognomy.

At the hotel, this daughterly act also has the advantage of smoothing over the uncomfortable distance between the guests and employees. I have to pretend a child’s unawareness of the difference between rich and poor as I order room service sundaes. Otherwise I’d be too humiliated to sign the bill. If I clap my hands and giggle when the tray arrives, I can pretend that the waiter does not know that I perfectly understand the chasm between us. We can enact, instead, the universally delightful circumstance of a child receiving sweets. I know this is ridiculous for a 21-year old in eyeliner, but now it is instinctive.

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