Mommy Crises Secret
If I live to be 120, I'm having my quarter-life crises right about now. I'm too young to be having my mid-life crises, and I'm not sure there's a word for "trying to find myself at age 32." If that's what I'm trying to do.
There's something I haven't told you.
About two days before I left for Scottsdale, Arizona, where I now am for a month, I got punk red streaks in my head. Yup, punk red. I'm so 1982.
I mean, it looked really good on the hairdresser, who was doing my hair. Of course, she is about 22 and half-Cambodian, so already way cooler than I'll ever be, have been, am.
Anyway, I've always wanted to do it. So I did it. I'm 32. I don't have to work in an office, I don't need to ask my mother's permission ("Mom! It's just hair. It will grow out!") I just felt, well....like shaking it, or me, or something, up a bit. And, I've already done the tattoo thing, dating a rock star thing, and the belly buttom peirce thing
In any case, I love the hair.
The Fiance hates the hair. I don't care that he hates the hair. I figured he would. What I can't stand is The Fiance looking at me every three minutes and saying, "Ohhhhhh, you're soooooo alternative." Really.
I'll be like, "Hey, you want to see a movie tonight?" And he'll be, "Ohhhhh, you're soooo alternative." Or I'll say, "I'm going to Yoga," and he'll say, "Ohhhh, you're so alternative."
Maybe the red-streak thing is a Mommy-Crises thing. I think it is. I'm fighting the whole, "You're a mother now. No more fun for you! No more wild and crazy experiences!" thing.
Good thing The Dictator is only two and can't threaten to take away my allowance.