Heat and Democrats notwithstanding, today’s a pretty excellent day to #VisitPhilly.
And to get a sweet-ass haircut.
Now that a few days have passed and I’m sure there’s no more to this story…
The other day I looked at my phone and saw a missed FaceTime call from That Guy. I don’t use FaceTime, and he and I had never used it, so it was clearly just a misdial.
I’d always assumed it was customary to delete a woman’s number once she’d served her purpose, though I’d wager he’s deleted it now. I had deleted him as a contact a while back, oddly so I’d never call or text HIM accidentally, but I recognized the number.
And thank GOD I didn’t call him. Accident or no, and with apologies for my sexist generalization, a woman who did that would look like a goddamn psycho.
Pop quiz: I’m getting my hair cut and colored tomorrow. At what age do we think dyeing it pink looks a little midlife-crisis-y?
A. Pink?! Who are you, late-’90s Gwen Stefani? That shit is passé. (And quite possibly also bananas.)
B. Your age (41). It becomes sad at your age.
C. Wow, your mother really fucked you up about age as a limitation, didn’t she?
D. I mean…it’s your call, but good luck getting that job you applied for.
E. Age doesn’t mean anything, do whatever you want.*
*By the way, this is what I’m doing. If I wake up tomorrow and feel like my hair should be pink, then pink it shall be. I was just curious about perceptions.
I’ve been so run down that I was a little worried about my blood donation appointment today. I know I CAN donate, but I was concerned about feeling even more depleted. So I Googled it, and dammit, Australian Red Cross — I can’t decide if I’m comforted or insulted by your assurance.
“Oh, because I’m a woman overrun with hormones, I must want snacks and a couch? How dare you stereotype me?!”
“You DO want snacks and a couch.”
One of my (many) issues with dating: I’d need to be at least as enthused to spend my Saturday night on a date as I am about spending it by myself, at home with a glass of wine and a documentary about a font.
I mean, unless said date involved ice cream. I’d probably be enthused about ice cream.
P.S. Send ice cream.
BRB, have to go marry this woman:
“I’ve got this shit called FEELINGS and they are the goddamn worst…Feelings are fundamentally UNFAIR and TERRIBLE. Something happens to you, totally outside your control, and then you just have to feel BAD for god knows how long? Don’t get it, don’t like it.”
YUP. In the past few years, I’ve taken breaks from/avoided my stupid feelings by mainlining Scandal (multiple times), Grey’s Anatomy, Gilmore Girls, Breaking Bad, and Jane the Virgin, along with repeated viewings of standup comedy specials and comfort movies.
Not sure if that’s a SIGN of depression or a coping mechanism for it, or both, or just totally normal behavior for the age we live in, but…screw it, it does help.
I’ve had a shitty week — just too much stupid all coinciding: relationships, finances, PMS, change in prescription drugs (I don’t think they’re supposed to make you feel worse), and ball-sacky weather. It’s mangling my body, my sleep, and my attitude.
I wish our bodies had more obvious gauges for things. A red light should come on to let you know you need to eat a vegetable because your body requires, like, riboflavin or whatever. Or, *ding ding* “Oh, OK, I have to exercise more and maybe I’ll stop feeling as if I’m constantly dragging my body through sand,” or, *BEEP* “Says here this drug is fucking me up. The gauge just told me to call the doctor and get THIS drug, and it’ll fix you right up.”
Or even a green light: “You’re OK, it’s just the heat. Crank the AC and drink more water.”
We need a more specific human schematic.
We should be able to upgrade our bodies like car models. I’d like the Sport features, please.
Can my body get nav?
Text from a friend about a man who’d wronged her: “Motherfucker ALWAYS manages to pop back into my life somehow JUST when I’ve let my guard down. Seriously, it’s almost impressive. He’s like the herpes of people.”