(Originally posted on 11.08.08)
Slow-motion Dancing!
OK, I know what you're thinking (I'm an omniscient narrator): "RD, this sounds weird, and frankly, a little stupid. How will I be able to demonstrate my sexual prowess to members of the opposite sex if I'm lumbering about on the dance floor like a tranquilized horse?"
To this I say: "pish-tosh my friends!" Here are some reasons why I believe slow-motion dancing will be the next craze to sweep the nation:
1. The Slo-Mo treatment can be applied to pretty much any dance move, and in effect, has two advantages: you no longer have to dream up new choreography, and previously unmastered moves suddenly become a piece of cake. Think how easy break-dancing, ballet, and the Carleton would be if you just took your sweet-lovin' time.
2. You don't have to worry about falling down; if you're a drinker or a wearer of high-heels, I shouldn't have to elaborate on this one.
3. Slo-Mo dancing will make you seem ironic and wickedly clever to all of the Liberal Hipsters. You'll have them begging to buy you an import beer and hold your hair while you puke later.
4. Slo-mo moves will make the crowd feel even more inebriated, which increases your odds of "meaningful conversation" ten-fold.
5. Two words: Strobe Lights.
6. Anyone can successfully Slo-Mo dance, young, old, black, white, fat, skinny...debilitatingly lethargic. It's an everyman's dance that can bring unity to an otherwise divisive setting. World Peace, anyone?
7. It can't look any more ridiculous than Contemporary Jazz.
In closing, I hope that the next time your at a party/club/honkeytonk/speakeasy/So You Think You Can Dance? audition, and you're feeling a smidge insecure about your rhythmic stylings, you'll remember this mantra: Take it Slow, and You're Good to Go! (Patent Pending). Now, get going you dance machines!---but not too quickly....
You can thank me later.
RD
Sunday, January 4, 2009
She's Got Legggs! (She Knows How the Bruise Them!)
(Originally posted on 5.26.08)
First of all-forgive me if I hyperly (Is that a word? I have no idea) ramble through this post. I broke my one-cup-of-coffee rule earlier, and I'm caffeinated! (Cue the simultaneous eye twinkle, frozen smile and oven-timer bell).
Since my last post, I have cut-back on the TV usage. Although I totally divulge on Thursday nights and watch all my faves. I started running as well. I know this seems a little counter-intuitive to those of you who have read some of my other blogs (or have just observed me walk at some time or another) because you've probably noticed that I'm not very gazelle-like. Yeah, yeah go on and flashback to all the clumsy stuff you've read about or seen me do; I'll give you a moment...
OK, that's enough omgroflyao!!-ing for now. People are starting to stare at you. Besides, you're going to want to save some of that laughing at another's expense for later (trust me).
So yeah, running, well running with intermittent walking to be precise. I've even been getting up in the early morn to do it! I'd give myself those nifty Elle Woods sorority snaps, but I didn't make the cut in college, so I'd probably do it wrong, and all of you 'sisters' would toss your silky hair and snicker daintily at my desperate and ill attempt at belonging during your next meeting atop Mt. Olympus, or wherever you guys congregate...I wouldn't know *sigh*
See what I mean about rambling? I warned you. This mind is a wild and wacky place when it's "on the bean."
Back to the present story: I've been running for just a few weeks, and I started out wearing a pair of older sneakers not really meant for actual exercise because, up until now, I've never had much use for functional athletic wear. Well, my shoes weren't really cutting it, and my oh-so thoughtful husband got me some flashy-woo-woo running sneakers for an early birthday present. On top of being all, like, good for your feet and stuff (boooring!), they are pretty darn cute.
I couldn't wait to christen them on the streets the next day. I wake up as soon as my alarm goes off the following morning and immediately pull on my shorts, strap on my wristwatch, and slide my tootsies into my new shoes. I then proceed to hit the streets. Things go really well for the first 15 minutes of my trek; I begin noticing my form and other "runny stuff." This makes me feel as though I am becoming more effective and skillful in my new hobby, whether it is an actual effect or not. My run is even- Do I dare say?- Enjoyable?!
My route is usually in the historic district, and this day is no different. The large old homes, each with its own era of architecture, are flanked by pristine lawns with personalities as distinct as their owners. It's truly a beautiful part of town, and a huge part of why I love it here. I'm not particularly nature-loving, but I really dig urban conservation efforts: the area allows me to ponder and pontificate freely. Here's a snippet of my train of thought as I'm soaking up my quasi-natural surroundings on this particular day:
Man, that's a pretty house. *huffhuff* (I start to pass an elderly woman walking with a cane) Wonder if she's packin' heat...*looks at wristwatch* Poooooo! I've gotta keep running for another two flippin minutes! I'll never make that-sure I will-I can do it. Hey, there's a dude riding his bike. "Hello fellow exerciser! My, your wind jacket is awfully yellow! I h-
"Huyoooph!" That's the audible noise I make before my body thuds upon the concrete.
Until that moment, I thought people only made that sound in movies containing inordinate amounts of sight gags. Turns out, I make it too when I unexpectedly hurdle through the air. After what seems like a lifetime, I make contact with the ground. Crap.
As I lay spraddled across the sidewalk, Yellow Lance Armstrong whirs by on the other side of the street, but he never looks over my way. I assume he's too absorbed in his own Tour de France fantasy to be bothered by my tragedy. I am relieved by his inattentiveness.
Still a bit dazed, I look over my shoulder to see the culprit of my tumble: a busted up piece of sidewalk. After quick survey, I find that I am relatively unscathed, save for a couple of shallow scrapes here and there. I then spend a while in deliberation: Do I dejectedly walk home like the lousy blunderer that I am? Or do I get up and hit the ground running?
In a true Rocky moment (if Rocky were a clumsy, slightly overweight, 27 yr old girl, of course), I jump up and run the rest of the way home. Actually, I wasn't all that embarrassed.
When you've fallen in public as many times as I have, you become pretty desensitized.
RD
First of all-forgive me if I hyperly (Is that a word? I have no idea) ramble through this post. I broke my one-cup-of-coffee rule earlier, and I'm caffeinated! (Cue the simultaneous eye twinkle, frozen smile and oven-timer bell).
Since my last post, I have cut-back on the TV usage. Although I totally divulge on Thursday nights and watch all my faves. I started running as well. I know this seems a little counter-intuitive to those of you who have read some of my other blogs (or have just observed me walk at some time or another) because you've probably noticed that I'm not very gazelle-like. Yeah, yeah go on and flashback to all the clumsy stuff you've read about or seen me do; I'll give you a moment...
OK, that's enough omgroflyao!!-ing for now. People are starting to stare at you. Besides, you're going to want to save some of that laughing at another's expense for later (trust me).
So yeah, running, well running with intermittent walking to be precise. I've even been getting up in the early morn to do it! I'd give myself those nifty Elle Woods sorority snaps, but I didn't make the cut in college, so I'd probably do it wrong, and all of you 'sisters' would toss your silky hair and snicker daintily at my desperate and ill attempt at belonging during your next meeting atop Mt. Olympus, or wherever you guys congregate...I wouldn't know *sigh*
See what I mean about rambling? I warned you. This mind is a wild and wacky place when it's "on the bean."
Back to the present story: I've been running for just a few weeks, and I started out wearing a pair of older sneakers not really meant for actual exercise because, up until now, I've never had much use for functional athletic wear. Well, my shoes weren't really cutting it, and my oh-so thoughtful husband got me some flashy-woo-woo running sneakers for an early birthday present. On top of being all, like, good for your feet and stuff (boooring!), they are pretty darn cute.
I couldn't wait to christen them on the streets the next day. I wake up as soon as my alarm goes off the following morning and immediately pull on my shorts, strap on my wristwatch, and slide my tootsies into my new shoes. I then proceed to hit the streets. Things go really well for the first 15 minutes of my trek; I begin noticing my form and other "runny stuff." This makes me feel as though I am becoming more effective and skillful in my new hobby, whether it is an actual effect or not. My run is even- Do I dare say?- Enjoyable?!
My route is usually in the historic district, and this day is no different. The large old homes, each with its own era of architecture, are flanked by pristine lawns with personalities as distinct as their owners. It's truly a beautiful part of town, and a huge part of why I love it here. I'm not particularly nature-loving, but I really dig urban conservation efforts: the area allows me to ponder and pontificate freely. Here's a snippet of my train of thought as I'm soaking up my quasi-natural surroundings on this particular day:
Man, that's a pretty house. *huffhuff* (I start to pass an elderly woman walking with a cane) Wonder if she's packin' heat...*looks at wristwatch* Poooooo! I've gotta keep running for another two flippin minutes! I'll never make that-sure I will-I can do it. Hey, there's a dude riding his bike. "Hello fellow exerciser! My, your wind jacket is awfully yellow! I h-
"Huyoooph!" That's the audible noise I make before my body thuds upon the concrete.
Until that moment, I thought people only made that sound in movies containing inordinate amounts of sight gags. Turns out, I make it too when I unexpectedly hurdle through the air. After what seems like a lifetime, I make contact with the ground. Crap.
As I lay spraddled across the sidewalk, Yellow Lance Armstrong whirs by on the other side of the street, but he never looks over my way. I assume he's too absorbed in his own Tour de France fantasy to be bothered by my tragedy. I am relieved by his inattentiveness.
Still a bit dazed, I look over my shoulder to see the culprit of my tumble: a busted up piece of sidewalk. After quick survey, I find that I am relatively unscathed, save for a couple of shallow scrapes here and there. I then spend a while in deliberation: Do I dejectedly walk home like the lousy blunderer that I am? Or do I get up and hit the ground running?
In a true Rocky moment (if Rocky were a clumsy, slightly overweight, 27 yr old girl, of course), I jump up and run the rest of the way home. Actually, I wasn't all that embarrassed.
When you've fallen in public as many times as I have, you become pretty desensitized.
RD
Solemates
(Originally posted 3.17.08)
They were the most awesome shoes ever. Clear vinyl spectators with a black patent toe and heel with chunky rubber soles that glowed in the dark. In all of my 11 years, I had never witnessed the coolness that emanated from the display wall of Journeys on that fateful day. I had to have them, and the spark of wonder that glinted from my eyes was enough to melt the heart of one of my parents (I can’t remember which one) and sway him/her to buy them for me.
I wore them everyday. They were transparent, and hence went with everything. I showcased a multitude of brightly colored and wildly patterned socks underneath them as I tromped clumsily down the 6th Grade halls. And when it was dark, you could always find me by the light of my neon green soles. It was like a 24 hour rave on my foot.
Though I didn’t realize it immediately, this was the first of many times that I mocked establishment with my fashion choices. I loved it when eyebrows raised and noses wrinkled at the absurdity of my shoes. I was making a statement without saying a word. Oh yes, these glorious little instigators of change laced across my feet brought me a great sense of pride and confidence in my uniqueness.
There were some minor drawbacks, however. From a functional standpoint, we tend to underestimate the importance of opaque shoes. You see, my clear shoes, as amazing as they were, did little to camouflage foot perspiration. In fact, they highlighted it. The smallest amount of it would fog up the sides of my shoes and settle into little drops of condensation around their grommets. Yes, I was making a statement, alright. Unfortunately, it was one that said: "Hey everybody, my feet are sweaty!" Nevertheless, it seemed a small price to pay for the overwhelming amount of joy and purpose that wearing them brought me.
One day, several months later, the flimsy vinyl on the side of my left shoe ripped. I don’t remember how exactly, but I have a few compelling conspiracy theories. My mom, the sensible shoe wearer that she is, jumped on this tragic opportunity to persuade me to throw them away. I stood my ground for as long as possible, but her "reasonable logic" finally got the best of me, and I said goodbye to my dear old friends forever.
I never gave them a proper goodbye, so I thought I might take a moment to speak to them directly:
Dear Coolest Shoes Ever,
We had a great run guys, and it ended too soon. If I could take back my actions, believe me I would. Sometimes, I imagine you, buried in some unforgiving landfill, fogged up from decomposing garbage and glowing into the murky darkness like the light of a wayward ship lost at sea, and I’ll be honest, it makes me die a little inside. You guys were just too great for this world. So, for what it is worth, I am truly sorry, and I’ll never forget the good times…
…For the other four people still reading this, my description of my shoes is nowhere near as good as the real thing. You really have to see them to understand the magnitude of their awesomeness. I have spent a considerable chunk of time googling every possible combination including the words "vinyl" "shoe" and "day-glo" (which incidentally took me to a section of the internet highway that only strippers and clowns inhabit), but I have been unable to find a picture anywhere. Yet another reason I should have hung on to them (Thanks a lot mom!). If anybody out there knows about these shoes and can produce a photo, or has a picture of me from the sixth grade (Hint: I’ll be the girl sporting the snazzy mushroom haircut and red rimmed glasses!), please send it this way so I can give visual documentation. On a final note, be good to your shoes! You never know when they might be unjustly ripped away from you.
RD
They were the most awesome shoes ever. Clear vinyl spectators with a black patent toe and heel with chunky rubber soles that glowed in the dark. In all of my 11 years, I had never witnessed the coolness that emanated from the display wall of Journeys on that fateful day. I had to have them, and the spark of wonder that glinted from my eyes was enough to melt the heart of one of my parents (I can’t remember which one) and sway him/her to buy them for me.
I wore them everyday. They were transparent, and hence went with everything. I showcased a multitude of brightly colored and wildly patterned socks underneath them as I tromped clumsily down the 6th Grade halls. And when it was dark, you could always find me by the light of my neon green soles. It was like a 24 hour rave on my foot.
Though I didn’t realize it immediately, this was the first of many times that I mocked establishment with my fashion choices. I loved it when eyebrows raised and noses wrinkled at the absurdity of my shoes. I was making a statement without saying a word. Oh yes, these glorious little instigators of change laced across my feet brought me a great sense of pride and confidence in my uniqueness.
There were some minor drawbacks, however. From a functional standpoint, we tend to underestimate the importance of opaque shoes. You see, my clear shoes, as amazing as they were, did little to camouflage foot perspiration. In fact, they highlighted it. The smallest amount of it would fog up the sides of my shoes and settle into little drops of condensation around their grommets. Yes, I was making a statement, alright. Unfortunately, it was one that said: "Hey everybody, my feet are sweaty!" Nevertheless, it seemed a small price to pay for the overwhelming amount of joy and purpose that wearing them brought me.
One day, several months later, the flimsy vinyl on the side of my left shoe ripped. I don’t remember how exactly, but I have a few compelling conspiracy theories. My mom, the sensible shoe wearer that she is, jumped on this tragic opportunity to persuade me to throw them away. I stood my ground for as long as possible, but her "reasonable logic" finally got the best of me, and I said goodbye to my dear old friends forever.
I never gave them a proper goodbye, so I thought I might take a moment to speak to them directly:
Dear Coolest Shoes Ever,
We had a great run guys, and it ended too soon. If I could take back my actions, believe me I would. Sometimes, I imagine you, buried in some unforgiving landfill, fogged up from decomposing garbage and glowing into the murky darkness like the light of a wayward ship lost at sea, and I’ll be honest, it makes me die a little inside. You guys were just too great for this world. So, for what it is worth, I am truly sorry, and I’ll never forget the good times…
…For the other four people still reading this, my description of my shoes is nowhere near as good as the real thing. You really have to see them to understand the magnitude of their awesomeness. I have spent a considerable chunk of time googling every possible combination including the words "vinyl" "shoe" and "day-glo" (which incidentally took me to a section of the internet highway that only strippers and clowns inhabit), but I have been unable to find a picture anywhere. Yet another reason I should have hung on to them (Thanks a lot mom!). If anybody out there knows about these shoes and can produce a photo, or has a picture of me from the sixth grade (Hint: I’ll be the girl sporting the snazzy mushroom haircut and red rimmed glasses!), please send it this way so I can give visual documentation. On a final note, be good to your shoes! You never know when they might be unjustly ripped away from you.
RD
Taylor, The Mighty Bowhuntress
(Originally posted on 2.12.08)
It was the spring of 1994, and 15 to 20 of my fellow classmates and I gathered in the high school gym. As I followed the rest of my friends into the girl's locker room, the impossibly low ceilings and dingy cinderblock walls reminded me of medieval dungeons or ancient catacombs. Not so much because of their appearance, but rather because of the dread I felt for what came next: 8th grade PE class.
Academic success has come quite naturally to me for the better part of my life. I have excelled in English and most other subjects, but PE, or any endeavor requiring physical skill or hand-eye coordination has always evaded me.
My parents enrolled me in T-ball, and I played a total of two games before ending my competitive sports career at the ripe old age of 5. In fact, my 4 year old brother filled in for me at most of those practices whilst I picked dandelions and complained about the heat.
Not only am I a pansy, I am also terminally clumsy. When you throw healthy dose of paranoia and subsequent flight response when balls and/or miscellaneous sporting equipment are hurled toward me, the picture becomes even clearer.
Every time I walk onto a sporting field or court, I envision the word "SPAZ' in giant red letters emblazoned across my chest for the entire world to point and laugh at. It is something that I frequently joke about now, but as a 13 year old girl, when my pubescent hormones had a stranglehold on any confidence I might have possessed, it was a source of great humiliation.
As I pulled on my bright blue Umbro shorts and oversized Nike T-shirt in that locker room, I felt like a peasant accused of witchcraft; I was dressing to be burned at the stake for my poor motor skills. While the others flitted and skipped along the basketball court to revel in all things competitive and athletic, mine was a death march.
Each day held some new realization of my ineptitude. I waited to hear the defeat in the team captain's voice as they called my name from the last three fitness rejects who stood aimlessly on the other side of the gym. We stared longingly, across that great chasm of inequality, at our able-bodied counterparts, knowing that, in this gym, we would never measure up.
As I shuffled to softball plate to take bat, my shoulders slumped and I fought back tears of shame as one of the opposing teammates inevitably shouted "Everybody move up!"
Our teacher, "Coach D," was a seasoned boy's basketball coach. He called everyone by their last name, kind of like commanders with their soldiers. By all accounts, he was tough and passionate about sports, but when it came to me, it was quite apparent that I was a lost cause. Coach D gave perfect instructions on each sport we tackled that semester, but no amount of wisdom seemed to rescue me from my awkward and blundering form. It had to be disappointing for him as an educator because I sucked at everything…
That is everything, except archery.
One bright sunny day, Coach D led the class out to the adjacent practice field. 6 brightly colored circular pads stood on support bars several yards away as we walked up to corresponding sets of bows and quivers filled with arrows on the grass. Coach D went through the fundamentals and techniques of the sport, and after a few minutes, it was our turn to give it a shot (my apologies for the horrible pun).
When my turn came, I picked up the bow, and loaded the arrow. I was a little shaky, but the fact that no one was in close proximity eased the fear that I might inadvertently impale a fellow classmate. I focused, took a deep breath, and released...The arrow went shooting through the air and landed quite close to the bull's eye.
I turned to see the faintest glimmer of satisfaction in Coach D's eye: "Looks like we finally found something you're good at, Taylor!" he said. Pride rushed over me like cool wave; I was finally a soldier, no, scratch that, a warrior!
For the remaining shots, I was Diana, goddess of the hunt, tracking fearsome animals and evildoers alike. Nothing, not even the snide remarks of jocks, could escape my mighty bow and arrow. I was finally in control of my reflexes and nerves, and no longer a martyr for the weak and feeble. As we returned to the locker rooms, the gym didn't seem like such a terrible place that day. I had actually conquered something sports related, and it felt amazing!
I wish I could say that for the remainder of the classes I was as adroit and skillful as I was that day on the archery field, but the truth is that some of my most disgraceful moments came shortly after that on the tennis courts. That, however, is a soul-crushing tale for another time, because for one sweet, glorious day, I was victorious.
Now that I've bared my soul, let's hear about your triumphs over adversity…don't be shy people, give me the goods…
RD
It was the spring of 1994, and 15 to 20 of my fellow classmates and I gathered in the high school gym. As I followed the rest of my friends into the girl's locker room, the impossibly low ceilings and dingy cinderblock walls reminded me of medieval dungeons or ancient catacombs. Not so much because of their appearance, but rather because of the dread I felt for what came next: 8th grade PE class.
Academic success has come quite naturally to me for the better part of my life. I have excelled in English and most other subjects, but PE, or any endeavor requiring physical skill or hand-eye coordination has always evaded me.
My parents enrolled me in T-ball, and I played a total of two games before ending my competitive sports career at the ripe old age of 5. In fact, my 4 year old brother filled in for me at most of those practices whilst I picked dandelions and complained about the heat.
Not only am I a pansy, I am also terminally clumsy. When you throw healthy dose of paranoia and subsequent flight response when balls and/or miscellaneous sporting equipment are hurled toward me, the picture becomes even clearer.
Every time I walk onto a sporting field or court, I envision the word "SPAZ' in giant red letters emblazoned across my chest for the entire world to point and laugh at. It is something that I frequently joke about now, but as a 13 year old girl, when my pubescent hormones had a stranglehold on any confidence I might have possessed, it was a source of great humiliation.
As I pulled on my bright blue Umbro shorts and oversized Nike T-shirt in that locker room, I felt like a peasant accused of witchcraft; I was dressing to be burned at the stake for my poor motor skills. While the others flitted and skipped along the basketball court to revel in all things competitive and athletic, mine was a death march.
Each day held some new realization of my ineptitude. I waited to hear the defeat in the team captain's voice as they called my name from the last three fitness rejects who stood aimlessly on the other side of the gym. We stared longingly, across that great chasm of inequality, at our able-bodied counterparts, knowing that, in this gym, we would never measure up.
As I shuffled to softball plate to take bat, my shoulders slumped and I fought back tears of shame as one of the opposing teammates inevitably shouted "Everybody move up!"
Our teacher, "Coach D," was a seasoned boy's basketball coach. He called everyone by their last name, kind of like commanders with their soldiers. By all accounts, he was tough and passionate about sports, but when it came to me, it was quite apparent that I was a lost cause. Coach D gave perfect instructions on each sport we tackled that semester, but no amount of wisdom seemed to rescue me from my awkward and blundering form. It had to be disappointing for him as an educator because I sucked at everything…
That is everything, except archery.
One bright sunny day, Coach D led the class out to the adjacent practice field. 6 brightly colored circular pads stood on support bars several yards away as we walked up to corresponding sets of bows and quivers filled with arrows on the grass. Coach D went through the fundamentals and techniques of the sport, and after a few minutes, it was our turn to give it a shot (my apologies for the horrible pun).
When my turn came, I picked up the bow, and loaded the arrow. I was a little shaky, but the fact that no one was in close proximity eased the fear that I might inadvertently impale a fellow classmate. I focused, took a deep breath, and released...The arrow went shooting through the air and landed quite close to the bull's eye.
I turned to see the faintest glimmer of satisfaction in Coach D's eye: "Looks like we finally found something you're good at, Taylor!" he said. Pride rushed over me like cool wave; I was finally a soldier, no, scratch that, a warrior!
For the remaining shots, I was Diana, goddess of the hunt, tracking fearsome animals and evildoers alike. Nothing, not even the snide remarks of jocks, could escape my mighty bow and arrow. I was finally in control of my reflexes and nerves, and no longer a martyr for the weak and feeble. As we returned to the locker rooms, the gym didn't seem like such a terrible place that day. I had actually conquered something sports related, and it felt amazing!
I wish I could say that for the remainder of the classes I was as adroit and skillful as I was that day on the archery field, but the truth is that some of my most disgraceful moments came shortly after that on the tennis courts. That, however, is a soul-crushing tale for another time, because for one sweet, glorious day, I was victorious.
Now that I've bared my soul, let's hear about your triumphs over adversity…don't be shy people, give me the goods…
RD
The No-School Zone
(Originally posted on 1.07.08)
I love school breaks. At the end of every semester there is a bright and magical "No-School Zone." During this short window of time, I can get a few things done, but better than that, I can amuse myself . Even with a yucky sinus infection, the sun is shinier, songs sound better, and I have the ability enjoy enjoyable stuff...apparently my vocabulary hasn't caught up with all of this wonderfulness (?), but you get the point. I'm all about concrete examples, so I'll give one:
On Thursday, I did my hair in rag curls, and it worked...some might say too well. The bouncy ringlets piled atop my head looked Romantic and frilly on Friday, but by Saturday, I got bored and decided to experiment further. Where would I go from tightly wound curls? Should I wash it, and start over? Let it go another day? Decisions, decisions.
Finally it dawned on me, like a beacon from the sky. I would go where few white girls have dared to venture: Afroville.
I'm fascinated by them, there is no hairstyle as fierce and natural as the Afro. I knew that I could never truly do an Afro justice like the strong and beautiful Pam Grier or the amazingly gorgeous Erykah Badu, but I felt compelled to try.
A euphoric combination of the "The No School Zone," and three days of cough syrup ingestion gave me the confidence to charge forward in my cosmetological quest. I picked up my trusty comb and set to work. The once springy curls frizzed out and multiplied across the surface of my head. I giggled gleefully as my hair grew and grew. It was beautiful.
Or so I thought, until I stepped back, and realized that my hair had only expanded horizontally; it had no height. I looked more like Roseanne Roseannadanna than Pam Grier.
Although I mildly scolded myself for being so silly to think that my flat, Caucasian hair could pull off such a feat, I felt satisfied and proud of the fact that I had tried something new and daring. OK, so it's not skydiving or teaching in a third-world country. My half-cocked Anglo-fro had no impact whatsoever on the outside world, but it made me feel free, and happy, and even pretty for a minute or two, and it was fun.
As I type this, I wonder if I will share it because I fear that most people reading it will judge this post as crazy or inconsequential or foolish, but the truth is...I am those things sometimes, and I've found that life is sweetest when I embrace the inane and awkward aspects of my psyche. My attempt at an Afro might have failed to deliver a feasible hairstyle, but I found something far greater in that fuzzy ball of hair: a tiny piece of self-discovery.
RD
I love school breaks. At the end of every semester there is a bright and magical "No-School Zone." During this short window of time, I can get a few things done, but better than that, I can amuse myself . Even with a yucky sinus infection, the sun is shinier, songs sound better, and I have the ability enjoy enjoyable stuff...apparently my vocabulary hasn't caught up with all of this wonderfulness (?), but you get the point. I'm all about concrete examples, so I'll give one:
On Thursday, I did my hair in rag curls, and it worked...some might say too well. The bouncy ringlets piled atop my head looked Romantic and frilly on Friday, but by Saturday, I got bored and decided to experiment further. Where would I go from tightly wound curls? Should I wash it, and start over? Let it go another day? Decisions, decisions.
Finally it dawned on me, like a beacon from the sky. I would go where few white girls have dared to venture: Afroville.
I'm fascinated by them, there is no hairstyle as fierce and natural as the Afro. I knew that I could never truly do an Afro justice like the strong and beautiful Pam Grier or the amazingly gorgeous Erykah Badu, but I felt compelled to try.
A euphoric combination of the "The No School Zone," and three days of cough syrup ingestion gave me the confidence to charge forward in my cosmetological quest. I picked up my trusty comb and set to work. The once springy curls frizzed out and multiplied across the surface of my head. I giggled gleefully as my hair grew and grew. It was beautiful.
Or so I thought, until I stepped back, and realized that my hair had only expanded horizontally; it had no height. I looked more like Roseanne Roseannadanna than Pam Grier.
Although I mildly scolded myself for being so silly to think that my flat, Caucasian hair could pull off such a feat, I felt satisfied and proud of the fact that I had tried something new and daring. OK, so it's not skydiving or teaching in a third-world country. My half-cocked Anglo-fro had no impact whatsoever on the outside world, but it made me feel free, and happy, and even pretty for a minute or two, and it was fun.
As I type this, I wonder if I will share it because I fear that most people reading it will judge this post as crazy or inconsequential or foolish, but the truth is...I am those things sometimes, and I've found that life is sweetest when I embrace the inane and awkward aspects of my psyche. My attempt at an Afro might have failed to deliver a feasible hairstyle, but I found something far greater in that fuzzy ball of hair: a tiny piece of self-discovery.
RD
Happy Anniversary
(Originally posted on 12.20.07)
Five years ago today two clueless kids stood before a Justice of the Peace in a tiny conference room at the Craighead County Courthouse. Nobody knew what would become of those two as they shakily recited their vows among the audience of a few close friends and family. No doubt there were many skeptics in the crowd, and with good reason: they were young and broke. They had known each other for less than a year, and half of that time had been spent with 1,500 miles between them. But here they are, countless hairstyles, five goldfish (may they all Rest In Peace), three states, two children, and one dusty set of dinnerware later.
While I'm not usually one for sentimental musings of romance, I'm making an exception tonight because it's my anniversary, folks! So without further ado, I will publicly embarrass my husband (and myself) by professing my love and gratitude for my guy.
To S:
Thank you for your patience and kindness when times have been tough. The years have proven that you are a strong, responsible, and honest man. Thanks for the uncountable nights of laughter and stimulating conversation. I love your cleverness and passion for your beliefs (even if I don't always agree). Thank you for working your tail off at school and work, and then taking out the garbage when you get home. I know the last thing you want after dealing with figurative sacks of crap all day is to be greeted by literal sacks of crap at home, and yet you voluntarily deposit them like a champ. Thank you for my beautiful babies; you are one of the most loving and devoted fathers I have ever met. Thank you for dreaming about and making plans for our future together. Your optimism and determination inspires me daily. I knew I loved you five years ago, but I had no idea how deeply that love would grow and mature. This thing we've got going has been the most incredible adventure of my life, and simply said, I love you as big as the sky.
That's it, and now the rest of you are free to go wash off the icky mushiness of this moment to which you have been subjected...I'm gonna go smooch on my husband :)
RD
Five years ago today two clueless kids stood before a Justice of the Peace in a tiny conference room at the Craighead County Courthouse. Nobody knew what would become of those two as they shakily recited their vows among the audience of a few close friends and family. No doubt there were many skeptics in the crowd, and with good reason: they were young and broke. They had known each other for less than a year, and half of that time had been spent with 1,500 miles between them. But here they are, countless hairstyles, five goldfish (may they all Rest In Peace), three states, two children, and one dusty set of dinnerware later.
While I'm not usually one for sentimental musings of romance, I'm making an exception tonight because it's my anniversary, folks! So without further ado, I will publicly embarrass my husband (and myself) by professing my love and gratitude for my guy.
To S:
Thank you for your patience and kindness when times have been tough. The years have proven that you are a strong, responsible, and honest man. Thanks for the uncountable nights of laughter and stimulating conversation. I love your cleverness and passion for your beliefs (even if I don't always agree). Thank you for working your tail off at school and work, and then taking out the garbage when you get home. I know the last thing you want after dealing with figurative sacks of crap all day is to be greeted by literal sacks of crap at home, and yet you voluntarily deposit them like a champ. Thank you for my beautiful babies; you are one of the most loving and devoted fathers I have ever met. Thank you for dreaming about and making plans for our future together. Your optimism and determination inspires me daily. I knew I loved you five years ago, but I had no idea how deeply that love would grow and mature. This thing we've got going has been the most incredible adventure of my life, and simply said, I love you as big as the sky.
That's it, and now the rest of you are free to go wash off the icky mushiness of this moment to which you have been subjected...I'm gonna go smooch on my husband :)
RD
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