January 21 2014, Lifetime
Look, I don’t want to go all confessional journalism, IHTM on you or anything here guys, but throwing that aside, I’m going to tell you anyway: from an early age I knew I had a birth right that I was destined to fulfil. If only it wasn’t for the minor fact that Fate disagreed and conspired to cheat me out of it. I’m a bit like a modern day Anastasia, except with a less thorough understanding of Russian history.
For as along as I can remember (or really, since I first watched Sabrina as a kid), I knew that was my destiny: to be a teenage witch. I knew, with the burning intensity that could only be my inner-self acknowledging my suspicions, that come my 16th birthday, I would levitate six feet over my bed and life would be changed forever. I too would be a teenage witch. All I had to do was wait.
In the meantime, I determinedly practised my ‘craft’ (that’s magic talk, for any laymans). I would mutter rhyming couplets (spells) under my breath and point determinedly at anyone who had wronged me, or wriggle my nose like Samantha from Bewitched. At one point, when I was reading Matilda, I even started giving myself some serious headaches and laid the grounds for early onset crows’ feet, squinting at things and trying to engage my telepathy—which was obviously lurking inside me, waiting to be triggered, if I could just get past the whole inducing a hernia straining thing.
When Harry Potter came along, once again faith burned strong inside me. This was even better! I was already at an all girl’s school, which was basically like being stuck in Slytherin, if everyone in Syltherin suffered from a massive case of PMS: I was already halfway there. This was even more obtainable!
Always, I was secure in the knowledge that I was a witch and it was only a matter of time before my powers would kick in.
Except they didn’t, I wasn’t and no matter how much I concentrated, I never could shoot glitter out of the end of my finger. Fate wasn’t having any of it.
Over time, as I grew up, developed breasts and discovered what it was actually like to be a teenager, I reconciled myself to the fact that I was never going to be a teenage witch. I made my peace with that. I’d be a writer instead and forever have a legitimate excuse for sitting around watching telly.
But then Witches of East End came along and stirred up those feelings of longing and resentment in me all over again. Even more than that, though, it gave me hope. Freya and Ingrid didn’t discover their powers until they were in their 20s; this could still happen for me. I’d just have to wait for my boyfriend’s hot brother to come along and snog me (although perhaps not, since he’s married and that could make things really awkward). Then maybe I too could rock a denim gilet like Freya and make my boyfriend have sweaty, pouty sex with me four times a night. Maybe I could have really good hair TOO!
Because once again the television has taught us an important lesson: being a witch is just so much better than being a normal person. And compared to the other things we have learned we should be (anything with a beach body) this is so much more attainable. So I’m holding out for my powers to kick in. Fate’s going to have to get on board this time; this is my destiny.
