Scent of Freedom

I miss desperately the reckless early days of my bloom.

Perched on a bike, legs firmly wedged around the variable male figure in front. I miss the slight twist of his fingers that left a roar of energy in our wake and a euphoric laugh emanating from within me. The playful clasps and pecks, conspirational grins at traffic signals. A wind that unabashedly whipped around my skirt, much to the raucous amusement of our fellow bikers. Staring into the twinkling eyes of the other dolled up, interchangeable girls. Knowing I was one of them, and getting high on the blatant, mindless, EXHIRALATING pursuit of sensuality.

Those painful whiplashes of carelessly brushed hair were worth it. The speechless, awesome fear in high speed was worth it. All for one thing – NOT KNOWING. Uncertainity. Unpredictability. Not knowing what I would be doing in 2 hours. Where I would be sleeping in 6 hours. What I would be telling mom in 10 hours.

We could easily have hit a bump in the road and been thrown out under a truck, smashed into ignominious oblivion, a testimony to irresponsible, immoral teenage behaviour.

But we didn’t. We had some of the best nights of our lives. Of my life, at the very least. And then we grew up. Or I did, at least.

And it’s not cool to want to be like that anymore.