Feeling Old in a City of Swifties

 Taylor Swift came to town and for two days the streets were full of young women and little girls. They flashed through downtown like butterflies, some still young enough to need a middle-aged mother in attendance, others striding in pairs like half of the leading characters in Sex and the City. Seattle's notorious dowdiness was suddenly perked up with bras and Stetsons and skirts that resembled band-aids,satin and tulle, sequins and cowboy boots. Among this, I felt as though I was wandering through a series of TikTok reels.

Suddenly I was in a city inhabited by avatars, shining and confident and somewhat terrifying, all young enough that they’ve never inhabited their lives without ever-present screens and cameras. They’ve been stars of their own private video worlds ever since they were old enough to hold a phone and they have an eerie physical presence in which every motion contains a pose.

Almost all of them were white. Many were blonde with bodies that looked as if they’d been manufactured by Mattel. Every last one of them had access to the financial comfort that could purchase a Taylor Swift ticket and the chutzpah to put together the sort of outfit that defied any concept of 20th Century style.

These are not the girls and women I usually see on the streets of downtown and that truth comforts me. There are young female people in the world today who are imperfectly human and unaware of their beauty and power, “same as it ever was.” But in their innermost selves, do they yearn to be one of the Swifties? Or have they turned their backs on that form of gender?

Taylor Swift is popular enough that she drew her audience from all over the Pacific Northwest. From Vancouver B.C. to Idaho, her followers descended upon Seattle in outfits they had probably agonized over for months. I need to remind myself that they aren’t a new species, just a transformed version of cheerleader and sorority girl. 

I’ve seen their kind before but they were in Bangkok, impossibly glamorous in full drag or dancing on the stage of a transgender cabaret. 

Was this weekend a watered-down version of a celebrity red carpet or a Pride Parade for straight girls? I’m too old to know the answer to that but I’m quite happy that my grandchild was at the Seattle Center, wearing everyday clothing in full sunlight, dancing and probably sweating to the music of Sir Mix-a-lot, for free.

Death by Tomato Plant

 For the past three weeks my hands have felt as though they’ve been bitten by mosquitos, although I haven’t seen any. The bites are swollen and itch like crazy, emerging every time I come back inside from my porch. 

I began to remember the invisible and voracious gnats that adored me the last time I was in Tucson, but I’d never encountered them in Seattle before. Besides, those little Southwest devils were averse to wind while my recent bites have shown up even when my porch is ruffled by a stiff breeze.

The bites seemed to become more annoying as the summer took on some heat but I could never find an area on my hands that looked like an insect had feasted there. The swelling and itching came within a few minutes after I came indoors and disappeared after an hour of annoyance with no visible scars. This wasn’t like insects I’d known in the past--and believe me, there have been many. Wherever I go in the world, the word is out. “Hey. Janet’s in town. Let’s eat.”

The source of the bites became my little mystery. Were they coming from the drain that lay just outside of my fence? Did my next-door neighbor have an open container of water within his lush garden where gnats had formed a summer home? Why did these creatures never attack me in the morning when the air is cool and my windows are wide open? And why did the bites show up every time I watered the massive tomato plant that my neighbor had given me a few weeks ago? Was there such a thing as tomato mites?

Last night after dowsing what’s become a tomato tree complete with yellow blossoms and miniscule green globes of fruit, I settled in with a magazine and a particularly virulent itching on my right hand, the one in which I hold my watering can. As the swelling fattened, my concentration went straight to hell and I grabbed my ipad.

“Itching” “Swelling” “Tomato plants”-- within a second google obligingly provided the answer. Tomato plants, with their abundance of pollen, are the bane of allergy sufferers. Itching and swelling are the least of their hazards to those with “sensitivity.” Some people go into anaphylactic shock after being in contact with tomato plants.

This apparently is a fact well known to gardeners and is the reason why tomatoes were considered poisonous for centuries. 

Good old Deadly Nightshade came by its name honestly. Some people can’t even eat a fresh tomato without lapsing into an allergic reaction and many gardeners only approach their tomato plants while wearing dishwashing gloves.

Today is the Fourth of July when most stores are closed. In preparation for the holiday, I stocked up on coffee and cat food. Who knew that my most essential need would be latex hand protection? It seems that my best avenue of defense is to wash my hands the second I come back inside and if that doesn’t work, resort to antihistamines. 

I’ve been so proud of the way my tomato plant has flourished--watering it twice a day, propping up its drooping branches with little sticks, pruning unnecessary branches, and taking deep breaths of its distinctive scent. And this is how it repays me?

Next year I’m going to sprinkle my porch with an assortment of artificial plants that provide greenery without danger. Or perhaps a cactus garden--all thorns, no pollen, no gloves necessary. 

Nature, I’m breaking up with you. It’s all over between us.