A Wrinkle In Time

The other day I was looking in the mirror and I happened to smile at something my cat was doing.

And then I saw them.

There, by my eyes.

LAUGH LINES.

Please note the complete refusal to call them wrinkles. THEY ARE NOT WRINKLES. They are LINES. From LAUGHTER. Which, you know, on the one hand, I am totes okay with because laughter is one of my favorite things.

On the other hand, lines – on my FACE – are NOT one of my  favorite things.

So, as I am wont to do, I freaked out a little bit.

Listen, I don’t generally think of myself as vain. (This may be delusional, but it’s what I’m rolling with.) I don’t own a full length mirror because I don’t, in fact, care. I don’t actually spend a lot of time looking in the “just for your face” mirror either, unless I’m putting makeup on because, well, you don’t want to poke yourself in the eye with one of those pencils.  And while I do wear make up, it’s more because it’s fun to fuss with than any other “look at me I’m so Beeeeyoootiful” deal.

However, I was NOT down with the laugh lines. Because while there are things I do appreciate on my face (eye shadow! Lipstick! The stud in my nose!), lines are NOT on the “welcome to the party” list.

I recently had to toss all of my skin care products because, as it turned out, they were not only NOT making my skin dewy and glowy and youthful, they were, in fact, the source of the rash from hell. So there I was, aging like nobody’s business and with nothing helpful to smear in the crevasses that were rapidly forming near my eyeballs.

That was when I turned to modern science and the very nice aesthetician at my salon. She got a VERY bright light. And a magnifying glass. And she stared. And stared. And murmured to herself and wrote things down. And I, of course, tried to keep my eyebrows still (because, okay, in addition to laugh lines, I may also have a “my eyebrows think that I need to use them as punctuation and leap about my face when I speak” crease or two or three) but I kind of wanted to draw them together in consternation because, dude, that was a very bright light and I wasn’t sure I was up for the final verdict.

Finally, the light went out. “Well,” she said.

I braced for the “We’re going to want to resurface your face, and inject things into it, and here are four gagillion dollars worth of products that you’re going to need to buy, lest you wake up tomorrow with the face of a pruney hag.”

“You need to drink more water,” she said finally.

“What?” This was NOT what I expected.

“A lot of these? From dehydration,” she said kindly.

“Oooh.”

So yes, I have laugh lines – and the forehead furrow – because those come from age. But I also have “Drink more water, stupid,” lines.  Somehow, this does not strike me as awesome.

Getting older is HARD, y’all. How am I supposed to keep up with these things?

For Mrs Porter

This is probably a weird thing to say, but here it is: I had a bad year when I was in third grade.

As a thirty-six year old, looking back, I realize that sometimes, events synch up in just the wrong way, so as to make life difficult. As a thirty six year old, I can be objective and realize that a bad moment … or week … or even year  … is only an instance in time that will pass.

As a third grader, I may have lacked some perspective.

Here’s what happened when I was in third grade: my regular math teacher had a baby and went on maternity leave. We had a long term sub.

She (ahem) may not have been the best teacher ever.

And I (ahem) may nearly have failed math. Despite the fact that I worked incredibly hard, I didn’t get it and she – bless her heart – didn’t know how to explain it to me.

Until that point, I’d done well in school. Nearly failing math was devastating. I stopped liking school and began enduring it. Even the subjects I enjoyed, the subjects I was good in, were tainted because I knew that, eventually, I’d get to math, and everyone would know that I was incredibly dumb.

Third grade ended and I didn’t want to go to fourth grade. Fortunately, fourth graders are not, as a rule, allowed or encouraged to run away and join the circus or drop out of school.

Off I went. Defeated and math illiterate.

And that’s when I met Mrs Porter, who took one look at a pigtailed fourth grader and saw a sad little soul who had the potential to be something.  And if you had asked her what that something would be, she would have said, triumphantly: “Anything she wants!”

I was struggling through math one day – like usual – and she said, “Danielle. Look at me.”

I looked up. She gently cupped my face in her hands. “Something in your head doesn’t like numbers,” she said. “We can fix this. I will not give up if you do not give up. Do we have a deal?”

Until that moment, I had not thought that teachers were there to help you. I thought they were there to drop information into our heads, like momma birds, and we were supposed to receive it, our brains open like hungry beaks. I thought we were just supposed to get it. I had NO IDEA that they would go out of their way to help you to learn.

(I should add here that I had good teachers before Mrs Porter. I just hadn’t struggled with them , so the notion of help, the notion of guidance, had never occurred to me.)

And let me tell you, Mrs Porter did. Boy did she ever. I still don’t like math, but because of her I completed college level calculus as a senior in high school.

Because, you see, I’d promised Mrs Porter that I would not give up. We had made a deal, and she had always – ALWAYS – kept her end of the bargain.

When I became a teacher, I had the opportunity to work with Mrs Porter. She said to me one day, “You know, Danielle, you can call me Heidi.”

“Oh, Mrs Porter,”  I said. “I’ll try.”

I was never able to.  It made her laugh.

Mrs Porter passed away this week.

She lived an extraordinary life – I could have told you about how she grew up in Germany, survived WWII, survived the communist occupation of her hometown, all of the details that obituaries list, but I wanted to tell you this – the thing that made her amazing, the thing that made her outstanding as a human being? Was that ability to look at someone and see all of the potential that they brought to the table, and to ask what she would need to do to draw it out.

For me, that is her legacy. I hear her voice in my head, sometimes, when  I am having a bad day: “I will not give up if you do not give up. Do we have a deal?”

And I know I can’t quit. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. Because she kept her side of the bargain, so I have to keep mine.

Good bye, Mrs Porter.

And thank you.

Tuesday. Feh.

I am going to out myself right now: I am day-ist.

I prefer some days of the week to others. There, I said it.

I’m not even ashamed.

I always thought that Monday got kind of a bad rap. It’s not Monday’s fault that it’s traditionally the beginning of the work week, I thought.  And, you know, Mondays are full of possibilities and beginnings and all of that kind of “whee I’m so positive” goodness.

Wednesday is nice. Wednesday is the tipping point of the week, after a couple days of uphill, it’s nice to be able to look down the other side of Wednesday and see the weekend. I kind of always picture Saturday and Sunday as kicking back in lawnchairs, drinking boat drinks, and waving merrily as if to say “You’ll get here! And when you do, the cabana boy will bring you something delicious, with an umbrella sticking out of it!”

I bear no animosity towards Thursday. I mean, sure, it’s like Friday’s less popular brother, the one he has to bring with him everywhere because his mom said he had to, but he's tolerable. I can hang with some Thursday.

And, well, Friday? Friday is like the DJ of the weekend party. Friday sets the tone.  Friday is the cool kid you want to hang out with all night and well into the morning, when you can finally pull up a chaise with Saturday and Sunday and soak in the rays.

Tuesdays, however, suck.

I hate me some Tuesday.

Oh I see the NEED for Tuesday, but MAN, Tuesdays are tough. The novelty of Monday is LONG gone, and the weekend isn’t even visible until you hit Wednesday. So it’s just 24 hours of grunt labour. It’s like … life boot camp.

And it’s ENDLESS. Tuesday passes more slowly than a rainy Sunday afternoon.  Every hour is at least 240 minutes long.

Tuesdays result in a lot of coffee drinking, soul searching, and desperate longings for escape.

I’m sorry Tuesday, but I loathe you.  I keep trying to like you and you keep stretching on forever and ever, into the future. Time may be wibbly wobbly, but you are impenetrable and endless and all I want is for you to be over.

Please?

If I Ran The World

… when someone had a question, they would. Just. Ask. It.  This is a much better approach than making a series of statements and forcing me to guess what the question is.  Like this:

A: So there’s this guy.

Me: …

A: And he’s got a girlfriend.

Me: …

A: But he asked me out for drinks anyway.

Me: …

A:  (expectant pause)

Me: … So far I have several key elements in what might make a great story, but I don’t know what happens next! What happens next?

A: I wanted you to tell me if I should go out to drinks with him! Should I?

Me:  No. And why didn’t you just ASK me that?!

… When someone wanted me to fix something, they’d GIVE me the thing they want me to fix, so I can fix it. As an example:

B: I have this thing. It is broken.

Me: I’m sorry.

B: I want you to fix it.

Me: Can you give it to me?

B: Oh, do you need it?

Me: Only if you want me to fix it.

… people would take the time to think about what they were saying.

C:  You know how, when you don’t cancel your dentist appointment without 24 hour notice, they charge you $100?

Me: Yes.

C: I had to cancel today’s dentist appointment. Like, 10 minutes ago.

Me: Oh, that stinks.

C: So you think they’re going to charge me $100?

Me: Um. Yes?

… people would answer ALL of the questions you have asked them.

Me: I have two questions for you. First, is your blood type A positive, B positive, or O negative? Second, are you still a registered organ donor?

D: Yes.

… people would read their emails

E: Hey, I emailed you about the thing with the stuff.

Me: Yes, I replied to you.

E: Yeah, I didn’t read your reply.

… and I would be in possession of infinitely more patience than I have at right this moment.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz

We interrupt whatever the hell you were doing to bring you this important announcement:

There is a fly in my office.

(Okay, it’s not that important, but it’s Friday afternoon, and if you were THAT busy, would you be reading this? NO, you would not.)

Here’s why this bug is (hahaha) bugging me… Back in the day, when I was a young, attractive, sassy young thing (did I mention I was YOUNG? Can I say it again? I WAS YOUNG ONCE, YOU GUYS!) I wore this perfume that I luuuuuhveeed. I wore the heck out of that perfume, y’all.  It was good friends with my skin chemistry so that I always smelled like … rainbows. Rainbows and dolphin giggles and unicorns and glitter.

(It helped that I was young.)

Anyway, my sassy, sweet smelling self was married to … well, Mr Not So Very Right. And then she got divorced and that made her all of the following:

1)      Sad

2)      Depressed

3)      Suicidal

4)      VIOLENTLY ill at the smell of said perfume

Seriously. The smell of my (formerly) favorite perfume would cause me to throw up like a coed after a night of tequila and poor decision making.

Recently, however, I was in a store and I thought, “I wonder if that perfume still makes me gag.” Not because I wanted to check my emotional vomit reflex – that would be WEIRD, yo – but because I REALLY loved that perfume.

AND – giggles and dancing – it did not.

So I bought it, because duh.

Which brings me back to the fly.

Apparently, I am not the ONLY kid here who thinks I smell like some sort of goddess (which, by the way? I TOTALLY DO) because Mr “How did you even get IN here” fly is all “Hi Danielle’s Head, this is the annoying fly, requesting a fly by.”

So I say, “Negative, annoying insect, the pattern is full.”

And of course he ignores me, this little Maverick-imitating fella.

If this bug doesn’t stop buzzing my noggin, I’m seriously going to lose it and do what I want to do anyway, which is run outside and frolic in the grass.  Of course, I’ll probably attract bees, being as I smell delicious, but I think I’ll be okay with that.

The Colour and The Shape

I have said this before, but I’m going to say it again. (And probably again, and then again, and again.)

Appearance does not dictate nationality.

You can’t declare whether or not someone is American based on what they LOOK LIKE.

You know what else you can’t determine based on appearance?

*Language skills

*Intelligence

*Political leanings

*Sexuality

*Work Ethic

*Religion

NONE of those things can be determined based on the colour of someone’s skin or any other physical feature. Not a one.

You know what can easily be determined, though? The level of bigotry and ignorance someone holds in their heart when they announce that someone is an illegal immigrant – based on appearance. When they announce that someone probably doesn’t speak English – based on appearance. When they call someone out as a terrorist – based on appearance.

It makes me sad, and it makes me ANGRY.

And I will call you out on it if you do it in front of me.

Gotye, You Clever Fellow

I got a text from someone I used to date (like eighty grillion years ago, when tyrannosaurs roamed the earth thinking, why do I have these puny little arms? I can’t high-five ANYONE) and I totally shouldn’t reply. Because there’s a reason we USED to date and then CEASED to date.

Do not reply to that, I think sternly.

But I wanna, whines the part of my brain that is perpetually a 15 year old girl.

NO!

The text, by the way, isn’t anything earth shattering. What it is, clearly, is a test of the waters.

Like, hey, haven’t seen you in forever, we should get a beer.

Which is funny because it’s so CASUAL, as though it’s not out of the blue at ALL, as though he has a reason to be texting me, as though it’s been just a couple of weeks since we hung out, none of which are accurate or true.

So I totally shouldn’t respond.

I don’t want to respond.

I DO WANT TO RESPOND.

I want to say: why are you texting me? WHY ARE YOU TEXTING ME?

I want to say nothing.

And the 15 year old in my head, who loves any kind of attention, totally wants to say YES! Let’s have a beer so we can continue down the path where we do our best to destroy each other’s lives OMG THAT’S SO FUN!

It’s kind of not fun, though. It’s kind of tormenting and unnecessary.

And I think that statement – the one where I say that the drama isn’t worth it, that what we bring to each other is not worth the bullshit that we drag each other through, unintentionally, simply by being who we are – makes me realize that, though I might not be the most mature or stable person on the planet, I am one who is becoming wiser. I have grown.

It’s a revelation.

It’s enough of a revelation, in fact, that I delete the text entirely, without worrying that doing so is rude or that I’m not being nice or even caring about it at all. Because I know that when he doesn’t hear from me he’ll shrug it off, and then maybe, in a few months or a year, when he’s bored or (more likely) a little drunk, he’ll remember that he misses me, and dig out my number – but in between, he won’t think of me at all.

But next time, there won’t be any debate in my head at all as to what to do.

And if someone says, “Who was that text from?” I’ll just tell them: Someone that I used to know.