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The thing that strikes me most after having viewed Lena Dunham’s much touted new HBO Series Girls is: we’ve done it again, we’ve overhauled feminism and sexual revolution and general freedoms to produce the opposite of whatever we intended: an age that is disconnected and immobilized.

Let me say upfront, I applaud Lena Dunham’s accomplishment in writing, producing and starring in her own show. No easy feat. I like it, and as I’m preparing to watch the fourth episode in queue on my DVR, I’m enjoying it even more as it develops. Please be sure, it’s not her I’m critiquing here, it’s society.

As the mother of an almost eight-year old girl, I am attuned to the present-day experience of youth and the direction my daughter will be heading. What the world looks like from their post-college view is of great interest to me.

The portrayal of the overall naivete of these 20-somethings is more disturbing than their hyperbolic narcissism and inability to pay the rent. (Not that my generation didn’t have their moments of complete self-involvement and poverty.) The thought: How do they avoid getting murdered everyday? is followed by, well, the Lord looks out for babies and fools.

In the first episode, Ms. Dunham’s character, after being financially cut-off from her parents, stops by unannounced to engage in a disturbing booty call with a guy who refuses to return her texts. Not distressing because it’s kinky, or hot, or cavalier, but because she talks nervously about her financial woes through the whole escapade while he describes pervy underage rape images into her ear — which one can only glean that he learned, not from a genesis of fantasy within his sensual soul, but from where all memories of his conquests are more certainly culled from: the island of You Porn, where wanton waxed, bleached and implanted females live. There’s nothing titillating about it. It’s just plain sad.

And then there’s the friend who represents the virgin “trend,” as my nurse practitioner at a recent OB/Gyn appointment described it. She’s even more disheartening. This girl’s so distracted by reality TV shows and her self-comparison to any and all of the four Sex In the City characters, that she’s forgotten to start her own life.

Young women who chose to abstain from sex until their mid-twenties was the subject of one of Oprah’s final season’s shows, and it was treated as an almost mental illness by the professional panel. Even more unsettling about this burgeoning “type,” is the notion that, due to hormones in the food supply and whatever other environmental variables, this generation is menstruating almost two years earlier on average than previous ones. So this “choice” of virginal behavior defers their adult sexuality to well-beyond puberty, which, at the current rate, ends by eighteen.

When I was growing up… Harrumph! I didn’t know one person who remained a virgin past their first year of college. By that time we were not only talking and reading about sex — Our Bodies Ourselves, the Hite Report, the Happy Hooker, anyone? — we were comparing notes, experimenting with our own anatomy, making it our business to know how to achieve orgasm. Maybe it was feminism. Maybe it was irresponsible, destructive behavior. Maybe we were inappropriately over-sexed teens and entirely unsupervised. Maybe we were normal.

Girls makes it seem as if early to mid-twenties is the first time any of these people realize that they are actual women, it’s as if they’re still in high school. Though they are seemingly obsessed with their vaginas, very few of them know where it is, much less how to use it. What’s worse is that the only adventurous, worldly friend in the crew, is so ethereal and oblivious, she not only gets pregnant, she’s reckless enough to miss her own abortion “party.” A tragic message of promiscuity — if anyone considers going through an experimental stage, all brain function and discretion will be removed to the point of self-annihilation.

Parental fear that their budding adults are going to garner a disease, produce an unwanted child, become porn actors, or –oh my heart! – altogether grow up, is nothing new. But it does seem as if we’ve become so intense about saving our offspring from the ills of the world, that we’ve terrorized them by the thought of any true carnal experience, instead of allowing them to organically feel their way through it.

If Girls is evidence of anything, it’s that we “grown ups” need to chill the F*@! out. What’s the worst that can happen, our kids will make ridiculous mistakes, learn from them and then end up being responsible adults like us? There’s no way to avoid the very real separation that occurs in families during the teen years, but I intend to educate my daughter as much as possible before she stops listening to me. And frankly, I hope she knows more about herself than these girls do before entering college to a life of drunken frat parties and boys who’s seemingly only sexual experience comes from web-based porn.

It’s a testimony to Lena Dunham’s insider description of today’s young adult that I’m compelled to comment. And though I worry about the fate of my child’s generation, I also understand that we survived disco, the birth of AIDS and the drug-fueled-money-binge 80’s, the fervor of rehab and the explosion of internet porn. I’m confident we’ll muddle our way through this current stupor.

Pam Alster, former stand-up comedienne, Lifetime TV writer & suburban mom brings a decade of living on the dark side to light in her forthcoming debut novel Robin’s Blue.

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You’re on the phone reporting, what is nowadays referred to as a “bullying incident,” at your kid’s camp, and forget the offending rat’s name. In mid-sentence. No amount of memory search will produce it when asked, as if someone has deleted a file from your over-processed mommy brain. “Can I call you back with that?” you say.This lapse can easily be chalked up to multi-tasking, which includes family scheduling, career, personal upkeep, walking the dog and that incessant buzzing that eminates from the refrigerator. Instead, it becomes, OMG, early stage Alzheimer’s.

You obsess further. It’s no secret you came of age in the eighties. You luxuriated in the naivete of the post-disco era: casual sex, drug-fueled nights followed by hair-of-the-dog-chased-with-Excedrin mornings, and an unhealthy sense of narcissism, all seemingly, without consequence. Before AIDS, Wall Street and rehab snapped the entire generation back into lock-step. It’s a wonder that you even became a decent contributing member of society and aren’t loitering, soiled sign in hand, at a freeway entrance begging for a meal.

How do you pull off this supermom-sandwich-generation thing without dementia?

You panic about the recall failure. Not really. But you think, you should get it checked out, see a neurologist or something. Maybe it’s what you have coming after all that self-indulgence. Perhaps root color and botox only goes so far, there are dead brain cells to be accounted for! You feel great, though, don’t you? Sure there’s that clicking in your left knee and that occasional lower back pain but nothing like your parents at this age, who actually looked old.

Like many of your contemporaries, it was feminism before family. Career first, keep the maiden name, put off pro-creation until your ovaries sent you screaming into a Beverly Hills clinic to fix the cosmic error. Now that babies have returned to accessory status, hipsters everywhere are sporting them as effortlessly as iPhones and Uggs. You’re jealous. What do young moms know about short-circuiting?

It strikes you, that while trashing yourself in the great Me experiment, yours was also the first generation to embrace the work-out. Thanks to Jane Fonda’s mid-life crisis and her leg warmers, you’ve still got it going on. All these years of muscle-toning and aerobics has to mitigate some deterioration, even in the cerebral cortex.

It’s going to be OK, you tell yourself.

At Bootcamp you see women twenty years younger, who have no sense of how beautiful they are, finding it difficult to keep up. You think to yourself, they have no idea how long I’ve been at it. You wish them well. In the meantime, you’ll pass on the neorologist appointment and get the new laser to fix the sun damage instead. To hell with a few dropped thoughts. You’re not that hard on yourself anymore. Long live Jane Fonda.

Pam Alster, former stand-up comedienne, Lifetime TV writer & suburban mom brings a decade of living on the dark side to light in her forthcoming debut novel Robin’s



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