Saving Me From Myself.

I fear I am becoming one of those girls. The ones with the curtains of hair who will cut one if one so much as mentions cutting their hair. They can be seen quite frequently in BYU singles wards and on What Not To Wear. They seem to get their sense of identity from the curtain of hair that falls from their head to near their waist. My hair has never, ever fallen anywhere near my waist, but it has become quite long. And I started having panic attacks when I thought about getting a hair cut. Even though this is what I have been dealing with:

That, my friends, is a long, ratty, prone-to-tangles mess. And that picture was taken on a particularly good hair day. Nothing I did kept it from looking shaggy. So I was faced with a choice: look like a homeless person or cut my hair. Which started me hyperventilating again. The craziest part is that my hair grows quite quickly. The picture taken below was taken almost exactly two years ago:

My hair was barely chin length then, meaning my hair grew around 12 inches between December 2005 and December 2007. Which, if I'm doing my math right, means that my hair grows about 1/2 an inch per month. I should not be having anxiety attacks about cutting my hair; it grows like a weed. Which is why today after work I faced my fears and paid my lovely stylist to do this:

I lost 5 or 6 inches and gained a lovely auburn shade. But more importantly, despite the somewhat sullen expression in the above photo, I got a hair cut I love. And if I really want them back, I'll have those lost inches by next Christmas.

Sidenote: I just realized I'm wearing three different sweaters in the exact same shade of blue-green. Maybe someone should alert What Not To Wear after all.

With Regret . . .

I must announce that my fish Mr. Rochester is no more. He got listless about a week ago, I thought maybe he was cold, but a change of room did nothing to restore him and yesterday he died. What a wonderful way to end a perfectly horrible year.

RIP Mr. Rochester.

I Wouldn't Even Make It To Initiation

I just returned from seeing Enchanted (I know, I'm way behind in my holiday movie viewing), which I thought was a fun show on several levels. As I superficially pondered the themes in the film, I realized something. I could never be a card-carrying, capital 'F' Feminist because I identified with Idina Menzel's character, Nancy, more than any other. I like the fantasy of being rescued from the stresses of this world and jumping down a manhole (I have some experience with that) into Happily Ever After. Also, I'm sure having animated hair would be fantastic. It never tangles. So, since I don't have anything else to talk about, I thought I would post all the other reasons I could never be a card-carrying, capital 'F' Feminist.

• One my favorite Christmas songs is "Baby, It's Cold Outside." Which is a fun song, but with some rather sinister implications if one truly thinks about it.
• I like James Bond films. I don't care that he goes through more women than vehicles in each film. It is a smart, sexy, man with a British accent and a really, really nice car. What's not to love?
• I believe in the power of cosmetics, perfectly-shaved legs, and amazing, gravity-defying, foot-crippling shoes.
• I think staying at home and raising children is one of the greatest things a woman can do.
  
• I don't care about breaking glass ceilings or the fact that the ERA never passed or climbing my way to the top of the corporate ladder. Maybe I'm lazy. Maybe it strikes me that using a traditionally "male" template for success just plays into the myths behind gender inequality.
• I love fashion magazines.
• I'm a sucker for romantic happy endings, which is why I enjoy stories like Jane Eyre, North and South, and anything by Austen repeatedly. The thing that keeps me from reading "romance novels" is my literary snobbishness, not Feminist (or even feminist) ideals.
• If one of my most beloved Fantasy Boyfriends converted, moved next door, and declared their undying love for me, I might start re-thinking the whole going-back-to-school thing.
  

Random Thoughts On Something With Which I Have Absolutely No First-Hand Experience

I am surrounded by pregnant people. Half the members of my book club. My aunt. My sister-in-law. Lily Allen. Britney Spears's 16 year-old sister. Angela from The Office. Which means I've been thinking about it a lot more than I usually would. Which is nearly never, except for when Scully was pregnant on The X-Files and I determined that alien baby or no, pregnancy was a parasitic relationship. Apparently, many people find that philosophy offensive. To whom I say, "Really? Have you seen what happens to pregnant women?" And then they spew forth scriptural references about the sacredness of life and its creation. I do not dispute the sacredness that is new life and its creation. What I dispute is the assumption that just because the new life created is sacred, the entire process is sacred and therefore delightful, beautiful, and something for which a women should be grateful every single second. And here is why:

From puberty, one week out of every four of a woman's life is spent feeling gross, bloaty, and fat. And that is the least obnoxious part. In addition to the bloat, one's complexion erupts regardless of bank-breaking facial treatments, complicated morning and nightly riturals, and abject begging. The dress that made one look and feel like the beautiful, self-possessed woman one is five days ago, suddenly makes one look and feel like the ballet-dancing hippopotamus from Fantasia. Those who were merely annoying last week now stand a very real chance of being strangled where they stand. One is hyper-aware of every muscle, joint, and organ between one's shoulders and knees. Now, take this week-long discomfort and multiple it by 40. "But wait," you say, "that is 10 months, not 9." Yes, my friends, one of the dirty, little secrets of pregnancy is the myth that it lasts 9 months. It does not. It lasts 10. The pregnant one is only really sure of it for 9. In addition to multiplying that uncomfortable week by 40, one also has to increase the discomfort exponentially as those 40 weeks progress. Not only does the pregnant one feel gross, bloaty, and fat, but various parts of her body begin to swell at various rates. Multiple hormones race through the blood stream, meaning the pregnant one never knows what state her complexion or her mood will be in when she wakes up. The pregnant one's body shape also changes on a daily, possibly even hourly, basis ensuring that the clothes she put on in the morning will be unbearably uncomfortable by lunch. And, there really is no sure-fire way to flatter a figure that appears to have a magically expanding basketball strapped to the lower abdomen. Then, towards the end of the 40 weeks, the pregnant one's muscles and joints start to prepare to push something the size of a small watermelon out of itself. This ensures that the pregnant one can't even depend on her ability to walk, something she has done since the age of 1.

Thus, the pregnant one begins labor. Which, from what I have heard, is the most humiliating experience I could ever face. And, I fell into a manhole in front of the love of my junior high life. Not only is one at least half-naked in front of as many medical staff as one's doctor deems necessary, but one is fat and half-naked in front of as many medical staff as one's doctor deems necessary. One sweats off any make-up one might have on and one hasn't been able to dye one's hair for 40 weeks, so one has massive roots. Also, one is in pain. Which never brings out the best in one. Another dirty, little secret is that when one is pushing to get the baby out, other things come out. Unless one undergoes an enema. The word you are looking for is 'EW!' Even the arrival of the baby does not signal an end. There is the whole experience of breast-feeding, which I will not get into, even though I could (just ask Miss Parker) because I took a class called the International Political Economy of Women and a whole section was dedicated to the economical and political implications associated with the act of breast-feeding. The point being that once a child is conceived, the mother's body is not her own, and won't be until that child moves out of the house. And even then, there was research done that showed fetal cells in women's blood streams up to 21 years AFTER childbirth.

Not only is the pregnant one's body not her own physically, the entire world assumes that because her abdomen protrudes, it is now public domain. How often have you heard anyone's first question to a pregnant woman be about anything other than her pregnancy? Or even the fifth or sixth question? I dare you to go up to the next pregnant woman you see and ask her about the upcoming Presidential election. And then watch how the people around you react. Last week at book club, where the stated purpose of the gathering is to discuss the book, we spent 15 minutes on the book and an hour and a half on the various stages of pregnancy being experienced by half our members. I kid you not. Even more disconcertingly, others treat the pregnant one's abdomen like a petting zoo. Strangers touch it. People who would never dream of rubbing a flat abdomen find nothing wrong with stroking a perfect stranger's pregnant one. How is that acceptable?

For all these reasons, and some more that I won't elaborate on because they have more to do with my own psychosis than general experience, I find the idea of pregnancy to be unappealing at best. Some might suggest that I'm a bitter, cynical Singleton who has no idea what she is talking about. They might be right. But the idea that the state of pregnancy, the actual physical experience, is a beatific state of never-ending bliss might also be a gigantic diaper-load of crap.

Scully, At 6:50 A.M. or Why You Should Call With The Big News At Lunch

Telephone rings, Caller ID reads 'Mime's Cell'

Me (still groggy): Hello?

Mime (sounding chipper, like he has been up for hours): Scully?

Me: uh-huh. Is everything ok?

Mime: Yeah, why?

Me: It's quarter-to-seven in the morning.

Mime: Mrs. Mime is having a baby.

Me: Is this a joke?

Mime (slightly offended): No! We just found out.

Me: Oh. . . . Congratulations!