I have a distinct memory of being eight years old at my mother’s friend’s pool party. They were pretty great parties, all actors, writers and cops. My sister and I had our feet dangling in the Jacuzzi and someone came up to us and said, “You girls look so jaded.”
“What does jaded mean?” I asked him.
“You’ve been there and done that,” he said.
“We are not jaded,” I replied attitudinally. “We’re only 8!”
I guess he was trying to be funny, but the description felt like a death sentence. Although somewhere along the line of being a teenager, I did feel a little jaded. I remember wandering around blank eyed through high school completely bored by the guys I was dating. I wouldn’t even call it dating, it was always ‘hanging out.’
It wasn’t until I got to New York that a sense of romanticism flowed through me. I think I went a little overboard with it and Jeff caught me at exactly the right time to sweep me off my feet, which, in the end, also ended up feeling like a death sentence. But that’s another story…