Dear friends, today I present to you an excerpt from a book for grown-up girls. It’s an incredibly funny, at times touching story that captivates with its sincerity and unique perspective on what’s happening. It’s the story of a young woman from St. Petersburg about love, jealousy, betrayal, and breakups. Who is she, the new Russian—an inaccessible heroine of the glamorous world or one of us?
From today, I decided to hide my diary from everyone because:
- Any diary is very personal.
- Especially mine. I am going to write about love because what else should I write about? When love is happy, nothing interesting happens.
- I’m also going to write a lot about ***
- And I’m also afraid someone might find out what I’m writing here, especially Mura. I think it wouldn’t occur to her to read my diary—after all, it never occurs to me to read her school diary—but just in case, I’d better hide it. My diary is not for Mura’s clever nose but only for me. My plan for this year is:
1) Completely cut out sweets, only eat sweets with tea;
2) Become a truly grown-up, responsible person. Too often I find myself talking to different people, but thinking, “Any minute now they’ll say: ‘You step aside, girl, the adults are talking.’” I wonder if that happens to just me or to others too? Or to everyone?
In my childhood, I had a green notebook with 48 pages for writing down smart thoughts—not mine.
“All happy families are alike…” — that’s the thought that was written there. And I think Tolstoy was wrong.
MY FAMILY HAPPINESS IS NOT LIKE THAT OF OTHER PEOPLE.
September.
Quiet family life.
September 1st, Monday, 6:00 am. I think about love.
Money is the only thing that worries me. Money is in the drawer, and this unchecked drawer burns my hands. Mom says you get used to good things quickly. That’s not true. For example, it took me some time to realize that the money in the drawer never runs out.
Olga (the most spiritual of my friends) said that I am turning into a new Russian right before her eyes, or even into a shopaholic without any spiritual interests. I think shopaholic is too radical. So what if I lost my human form during the summer sale—I just couldn’t resist some very many pink things. Orange too, and green, plus one black linen dress.
And the bag?! You can tell everything about a person by what’s in their bag. And while I was running around the store loaded with pink stuff, I had the book “Psychotherapy in Practice” in my bag. I always carry it with me to remind myself that I’m a cultured person, and I also had… well, just a detective novel. Detective novels don’t count.
In principle, we all wander in the darkness of our subconscious, but sometimes there are moments of enlightenment, and then you understand that you’re the only adult conscious person in this store, looking with sad wisdom at the unreasonable people dragging piles of trousers, blouses, and hats to the checkout. Right in the fitting room, I peeked into the book and what did I find?..
