Although I’ve lived in this particular apartment for five years prior to renewing my lease, I’ve been on my own since 2002. Which means that for the past 8 years I’ve been coming home to the same stacks of books, the same coffee table clutter, and the same framed photos of friends and family who live elsewhere.

A person can get used to certain things after that amount of time. Used to stocking (or not) the fridge with blocks of cheese, store brand yogurt, and stale bread. Used to leaving dishes in the sink for two weeks and letting the laundry pile up. Used to watching certain shows on certain days without scheduling conflicts. Used to peace and quiet. Used to having space.

Truthfully though, the topic of living together has never really materialized. Not that it would have come up at all, but if it had, I guess you could say I headed it off at the pass. Abruptly, I shared my intentions with him one day last January. Barring a bizarre uptick in rent, I’d be renewing. And so I have.

I’m not ready. I’ve got a good thing going here. No matter what else is going on in my life, I’ve always had my own place to come back to. This apartment has proven a constant in my life when everything else has been uncertain.

The apartment itself is not perfect. It’s old and there’s that whole ghost situation to contend with, and oddly enough, the bathroom is off of my bedroom and the only closets are in the hall and the living room (which means I trek back and forth between rooms countless times while dressing). Somehow though, it all works. The lake is across the street, I have easy access to public transportation when it decides to show up, the grocery stores (yes, there are two) are a block away- though it feels more like six blocks when it’s eight degrees outside- and my friends and boyfriend live nearby.

And that’s the thing. Having my boyfriend live a block away means there’s no real inconvenience in seeing one another (although the walk home in the morning makes me feel super SKANKY- I want to shout at people in the elevator and passersby, “I’m in a committed relationship!!!!”). We’re together when we want to be; in our own places when we’d rather be alone. We don’t even have each other’s keys. It works. At least for now.

That said, my perhaps too easily made decision to continue living alone is thrown into odd contrast by my own brothers’ living situations. They seem hell bent on being grown ups, or some version thereof. One brother has been shacking up with his long term girlfriend for the past two years, and the other is poised to begin cohabiting this summer with his girlfriend of just over a year. I guess I can understand their living situations, but I just don’t see what all the hurry is about.

I think it’s important for a person to live alone for a time. You’re forced to fend for yourself, to take care of the things that arise in the day to day (like lighting the pilot on your gas stove for example), and you end up learning a lot about yourself in the process. I think it’s a necessary step in becoming part of who you grow to be.

At a certain point though, I wonder if a person doesn’t just grow complacent. If once you’ve achieved and mastered the whole “living alone” thing, you forget how to do anything else. I wonder if that’s me; if I’ll ever feel “ready” to give up the security and reliability of being on my own and supporting myself.

"Second-Day Hair" Fail

So I’m kind of a raging skankbot today.

Over the last couple of months, I’ve been trying this new thing where I don’t wash my hair. I’m not saying I don’t wash it EVER! I’m just trying to achieve that mythical and ever elusive “second-day hair.”

Ken Paves (who no matter what jeans she wears, has Jessica Simpson’s hair looking flawless) purports that it’s more than okay to “skip shampooing for a day. Second-day hair often looks fuller and thicker. It’s rare that someone HAS to shampoo daily, unless you exercise or perspire a lot.”

Or if, as has previously been the case for me, you have really long fine hair that just hangs. Because of my hair type I’ve never been able to understand what this “second-day hair” nonsense is all about. So what if it’s better for your hair if it only makes it look worse in the meantime!

But, now that my hair is cut short, I’ve been trying to “train” it to go every other day without shampooing. Thus far, the results have been inconclusive. Some days I end up with a bit more volume and a cute flip at the ends. Other days I look like I’m supplying the grease for the fry station at McDonald’s. Today is one of those days.

Which mean that later this afternoon I’ll be rolling up to a business meeting, looking less like a late 20s professional and more like a college kid who stumbled out of bed in her jammies for an 8 am Geology lecture. There I’ll sit across the conference room from VPs and directors who will probably wonder what the fuck is up with my hair. You and me both, buddy. You and me both. That said, who knows- maybe it’ll work in my favor. Maybe they’ll think I’m destitute or depressed and that they should pay me more so that I can buy shampoo and be happy. Hmmm….

Anyhow, the few things I can impart from my little experiment is that having shorter and/or darker hair is far preferable than long and/or blonde hair. And when trying to style my hair, I’ve found dry shampoos can be helpful, but are certainly not the same as regular shampoos. Also, you have to be careful with them; too much will have you looking like you’re sporting a powdered wig from the days of yore! I’ve tried aerosol hair spray too (with drying alcohol) and that seems to work well enough.

One of these days though, I feel certain that my hair will fall into line, that it will get with the program, and that I will win. I. Will. Win. Dammit. And as long as I don’t end up looking like the smarm king himself up there, Mr. Rob “I-Don’t-Wash-My-Hair-For-Six-Weeks” Pattinson, I’ll count myself successful.

I immediately rule out one of those seemingly innocuous seats toward the front of the bus because I’m liable to lose it. My route is prone to a few elderly regulars and at least one expectant woman. Who, incidentally, I wasn’t aware was expecting in this weather with all the heavy coats and such- although that didn’t prevent her from shooting daggers at me for not hopping up with alacrity to give her my seat. Perhaps she’s practicing for the day The Baby turns 13 and decides she hates her mother? Or the day her husband realizes his growing resentment of marriage/house/baby around age 43?

Moving toward the center of the bus, game time decisions must be made. Where to go? Where to put my butt? Where? Where? WHERE DAMMIT?

Not there…that man is in fact taking up a seat and a half, despite his best efforts to the contrary. He can’t help it, but still. And not across the aisle either…there’s a double whammy of both a woman talking to her fellow co-worker or neighbor or what have you (which is peculiar on this route, as we’re a generally sullen bunch- all sallow and droopy eyed and silent as a library) and another woman chowing down on a freaking bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. Breakfast of champions indeed.

So if not there, where? Certainly not next to the man aggressively reading his paper, scorning all would be seat mates from daring to deign on his elbow room. No need to expose myself to his moody shenanigans. But if I go too far into the bus without selecting a seat, I’m likely to find myself without any option whatsoever. And at that point, there’s no turning back. I’ll have just committed myself to standing and shuffling amongst all those who will exit the bus before me. The elbow jabs, the pole wrestling, the computer satchels and messenger bags unceremoniously poking and prodding without abatement. Asses and elbows, asses and elbows.

Despite all of my efforts, despite recognizing all the places I ought not to sit, wouldn’t you know I often find myself darting into a less-than-desirable seat? Bus seat stage fright. There I sit broken and defeated next to the stinky food eater, the cell phone talker, the personal space “creeper,” or the seatmate who wants to be my new friend and won’t take a hint. Foiled again.

What if instead of getting on the local commuter train, I walked up to the Amtrak ticket counter and boarded one of their trains instead? Amtrak isn’t exactly the most efficient (the arrivals can literally swing a day behind schedule) or the most romantic form of travel (have you ever spent any time on a train with “train people”? The smell, the shoelessness, the snoring, the Golden Grahams smooshed into your seat cushion…), but it can get the job done. In fact, my first excursions out of my hometown were by train, often to this very station. Something about that, about the act of escape, calls to me still.

What if instead of going to work, I bought a ticket to somewhere else? I could literally go anywhere. Anywhere else but here.

I could board a train and take it west to Montana, see the mountains again, the snows that never melt. I could go to the east coast, take the train to Maine; figure out what one does there anyway (eat lobster bisque?). I could head to Seattle, smell the rain and coffee beans and cranberry bogs. I could finally see New Orleans or Boston, San Fransisco or Vancouver. Or maybe just take a day trip to Minneapolis or St. Louis or “exotic” Cleveland. I guess the place isn’t what I’m after, but the going. A different city with different people and a different pace; something just left or right of center.

I could go without a hello or good bye, without a suitcase or camera, without a plan or reservation or companion. I could just go. I could, couldn’t I?

Which is why after seeing my new hair without salon styling, I figured it was time to pony up for a straightening iron. After purchasing one today, I was amazed, as a novice hair straightener, at the sheer amount of instructions. You’d think it’d be a pretty easy thing to figure out…1) Plug in iron and turn on, 2) Wait for iron to heat up, 3) Slide iron down section of hair, 4) Repeat, 5) Turn iron off when finished.

Instead, the straightening iron manufacturer has taken the trouble to provide much more detail, most of which can only be described as downright asinine. It makes me *almost* feel bad for the manufacturer’s legal department who clearly had to imagine all the ways that people could misuse the product and still hold them liable…

“DO NOT use while bathing.” I’m pretty sure that even five year-olds know not to do this. Still, there are probably crazy multi-taskers out there who think they can outwit the humidity of a bath, let alone electrocution, by both bathing and straightening their hair at the same time.

“Never use while sleeping.” I’m sorry, but what? Obviously, that would be a bad idea, but it begs the question. If you’re sleeping, how are you supposed to reason yourself out of straightening your hair? And how will you know if you are using it while you’re unconscious? I mean, what if it doesn’t work very well so you only wake up with semi-straight hair? Also, is this like sleep-eating and does it only apply to those taking Ambien?

“Never operate this appliance if it has a damaged cord or plug…return the appliance to a service center for examination and repair. NOTE: _______ does not have an authorized service center.” Sooo, um, call it moot?

“Never drop or insert any object into any opening.” Yes, it really says that. From the wording, I gather that whether someone claims to have intentionally inserted or “accidentally dropped” the iron up their butt or “any other opening,” they are a fucking moron and should instead be sued by the product maker. The end.

“DO NOT let eyes and bare skin touch heated surfaces. Use the handle.” I don’t know about you, but my eyes don’t typically need “straightening,” nor do they use handles.

“DO NOT use outdoors or operate where aerosol (spray) products are being used or where oxygen is being administered.” This wouldn’t be so ridiculous, except that when you’re styling your hair, you’re probably using hair spray which is most often dispensed in an aerosol can. Also, I guess all the Blue Hairs out there are going to have to choose between having assistance breathing or having straight hair. It’s a tough call really.

All in all, I have to say I’m so relieved that the manufacturer took the time to clear all of this up for me. Let’s just hope I can figure it out from here.

Sometimes I’m such a little girl. It’s a sad confession I make to you. I’m a twenty-nine year old woman who successfully (somehow) maneuvered her way through college and graduate school into (mostly) gainful employment, who moved herself from a small town surrounded by corn and soybean to a city of 2 million, who survived family and relationship dysfunction in all its varied forms, and I’m still brought to my knees by insecurity.

I may think I know who I am today, but I don’t feel like that’s enough for me anymore. I want to be so much more than…this…this version of me. It sneaks up on me and hits me right between the eyes. BAM! And it goes on to eat away at my better judgment, bringing hot disappointing tears.  Please don’t misunderstand, it’s not about “the having”- the material things, the job, the spouse, or the family. It’s about being the kind of person I admire from afar. My self-effacing jokes belie envy.

The ones I admire: they’re dark haired and quirky, eccentric and endearing. They’re creative and inspire creativity: know things about art and music and all its many forms. They photograph and take photographs well. They flit and float about town on their vintage scooters and bikes with their vintage skirts with vintage patterns and their vintage glasses and ballerina flats. They’re beautiful in ephemeral ways that spawn more beauty. They’re just left of center, original, authentic.

And all the while, I’m…me. Neither terrible nor extraordinary, but somewhere in between. Adequate maybe.

So you know how I’ve gotten sucked into fb (yes, I just admitted that again. I also acronymed it. What’s more, “acronymed” isn’t even a word so I’m two for two), well I’ve been witnessing the most….distressing?…trend among some friends of friends (i.e. people I know from high school but whom I refuse to “friend” because I honestly don’t give a Saxby Chambliss about them since we haven’t kept in touch in 11 years).

The trend? They’re using the composite facial close up from their ultra-sound as their profile pic. Seriously. Am I the only one who’s seen this happening and been nauseated by it? Am I really that destined for hell?

I mean, you’re having a baby. Congratulations. “Life” is amazing, especially new life. But, taking your unborn baby’s picture and turning it into an alien-looking avatar doesn’t make me feel all warm and happy and magnanimous for you. It scares me actually. Your baby scares me. And it’s staring back at me from your fb page.

Fear: Likely NOT the Intended Reaction

Also, while we’re on the topic: you people with 1200 “friends:” really? Twelve hundred? That’s like your own village or something. If I had a village like yours, I’d probably designate 3 o’clock the cupcake hour much the same way as Old Timey Folks of Yore used to refer to mid-night as the “witching hour.”

That’d be a lot of cupcakes. But hopefully not so many alien-looking baby avatars.