A Statement on Getting Older

Oh! It is SO embarrassing!

I seriously can't believe I just posted this on the internet! Where people with eyes can see it. This is actually how she fixed it in the salon. It is most certainly NOT what I asked for. With big ol' round face, bangs are not a friend. Not a friend at all. But I have found a way to fix it that is a little less...Man-ish and a little less mom-ish and a little more me. But it is still really, really bad.

I have a good friend named Nicole (Hello Nicole!). I like her because she is a lot like me. She came over yesterday and instead of saying, "Oh, it's not so bad! It's really cute!" she said "Wow, it really is short." My favorite part about that is I had previously told Luke that that was exactly what she would say. My main point being, no one need spare their criticism here. As Jill pointed out, I may HAVE a bad haircut, but at least I didn't WANT the bad haircut.

Which brings me to my statement on getting older: I am getting older.

I actually don't care so much about my hair anymore. I am actually glad it is so easy to fix. Only having an inch of it all over makes this an understandable fact. But I see it in so many other aspects of my life, and I feel...Well, old. It doesn't;t help that I spent the last year surrounded by high school students. They frequently reference bands I have never heard of, make jokes from movies I never saw and have the overall annoying habit of making me feel tired and worn-out in their presence. All those little girls with their stupid perky boobs and tummy shirts with streaky hair and fresh faces. I would leave the house feeling okay about myself, go to the school to help with a show and suddenly feel...Well, old. I take pride in leaving the house in a shirt that has not been thrown up on, and they take pride in EVERYTHING. That'll do something to your psyche.

But I wouldn't trade this for that for all the money in Solomon's kingdom. I know they are just a mess of nerves and sweat and smells and self-loathing. And I know all that time they pour into their appearances is never for their own benefit, but to produce an effect on someone else. That effect generally being a mask of self-confidence sprayed on with hair spray and a bottle of Cover Girl base. Thank God for adulthood.

After I had my two babies in a row, I laid in bed one night tracing my fingers over my road map of stretch marks that range from my ribs to my...Well all the way down. And I cried. And my wonderful, wide husband came over and told me a wonderful magical story. He said "Your body is the story of your life. Everyone of these marks shows that you made life. Every scar you hold is interesting. It means you have lived. If your body was the ideal of perfection, you wouldn't have much life in you. These things are beautiful." And while I think he's full of crap, it was a really nice sentiment. And it did make me feel better in general. But I am still unforgiving of my kids for ruining mommy's body. But as with all wounds, time has healed those, too. I feel fine about not wearing a two piece swim suit ever again. Frankly, without the stretch marks that would be a mistake. But I am not a child, not a teenager, not really even a "young adult" anymore. I am a woman. And with age, I have gained some wisdom and perspective about life. My body is my story. I'm proud of it.

Oh, and by the way, just see what happens when I use that "Your body is a story line with Luke the next time he complains about losing his hair.

But physically is the most minimal way in which I am aging. Do you know how many people I graduated from high school with are still living with their parents? Do you know how many of them are still regularly conversing with each other on My Space? Have never left their comfort zone? Are SO afraid of growing up? Have never made a new friend? All went to UCO? It makes me a little sad. But that isn't the half of it. I was chatting with a friend on the phone the other day and she says "We went out to a bar to hear some bands play and then we went to a club to go dancing." She's two years older than me. All I could think was "Do people do that? Have I become so wretched and old that I forgot that people GO OUT and have fun?" Last night for fun, Luke and I read each other Trivial Pursuit cards while I breastfed a baby and my other kid did puzzles in the floor. What a juxtaposition in lifestyle!! The last time I went to a BAR? Okay, I don't even remember the last time I went to a bar. The last time I visited Chicago and COULD have gone bar-hopping, I was pregnant. When did I spiral light years ahead of my friends. People I know and love and would like to have relationships with are living in a way that I can't even comprehend. I have to be home by nine every night because it is bedtime for Helen! But it's not just kids! Luke and I started living like this almost a YEAR before I got pregnant. We just sat around at night with maybe a single glass of wine chatting about politics. When did this happen? When did I start rocking out to Ben Folds? When did I stop smearing on the face paint and shaking my ass at night clubs? When did I trade curse words for poo and doody and frick? When did I buy that minivan? When did I start a savings account and start caring about taxes and the price of a gallon of gas and the environment and Jesus and kids and safety? When did I stop caring about everything else?

Oh that's right. It was when I grew up. When I started taking responsibility for myself. And through that started caring about and taking responsibility for others. And I wouldn't trade it for even a second to go to Cabo for the weekend and act like a fool and drink margarita's. And so...In conclusion, I don't really care about my stupid, bad haircut.