And so the nerves begin

I am not a "people person." I do not get excited at the prospect of spending an entire day with a room full of complete strangers. However, I know there are things I need to do to move forward in the world that require me to spend an entire day with a room full of complete strangers.

On Sunday, I will be spending the day in York, PA getting licensed in Zumba Gold.

Sadly, this does not involve actual gold.

Here is the description of the class stolen from the Zumba website:

Zumba Gold targets the largest growing segment of the population: baby boomers. It takes the Zumba formula and modifies the moves and pacing to suit the needs of the active older participant, as well as those just starting their journey to a fit and healthy lifestyle. What stays the same are all the elements the Zumba Fitness-Party is known for: the zesty Latin music, like salsa, merengue, cumbia and reggaeton; the exhilarating, easy-to-follow moves; and the invigorating, party-like atmosphere. Active older adults want camaraderie, excitement and fitness as a regular part of their weekly schedule. Zumba Gold is the perfect fit. It’s a dance-fitness class that feels friendly, and most of all, fun.

So I won't even be spending the day doing anything fun. It will be filled with lectures and learning how to make the moves I already know into something that older people can do successfully. Luckily, I have already completed three Zumba trainings (Zumba basic, Zumba basic 2, and Zumbatomic) so I know what to expect. Sort of. And this makes me nervous.

Not the actual information part. I know I can do that. It's the people part. The Education Specialist will break us down into smaller groups so we can discuss things and be like a mini think tank. Each group gets a subject like "What would be good rewards for kids?" or "Where could you market your class?" Then we are expected to make a list and present it to the rest of the class.

I hate that part. I always try to hide so my group won't pick me for the 'speaker.' It's almost like being back in school again.

When I go to social events, I usually have my husband around to handle the small talk. I am very bad at small talk. When I go to these trainings, I usually just sit along the back wall during lecture time and quietly take notes. I don't want or need to be the center of attention. I just want to obtain the necessary information (and license) so I can put it to good use.

But you teach classes? Isn't that dealing with people?

That is a completely different animal. When I am in charge of something, it's like I'm a different person. I have to be personable because I am being paid. It's part of the instructor package. It's only when I'm stuck in a group of strangers who are (usually) more knowledgeable  that I freak out. And it's because I think that they think that anything I have to say is stupid. I don't want to hear "That is so stupid" so I just don't say anything.

That is what I am nervous about. That I will be forced to speak in front of the class and something moronic will pop out of my mouth and everyone will laugh at me.

I don't want people to laugh at me.

But I will be brave. And I will go to class. And I will quietly take notes in the back. And I will participate in the practical part of the class. And I will get my Gold license. But I will not single myself out for anything. I will meld into the background like a chameleon.

Unincluded (it's a lot like Uninvited)

I work in a fairly small office. There is a grand total of 21 employees in this location. (We have a few people that work out-of-state but they aren't relevant to this story.) One of our departments is in a different section of our building leaving 16 people in my section of the building. Of these 16, there is a 'lunch clique' that consists of 6 people. Unfortunately for me, these six people are in offices that surround my office. That means I have to listen to them make their various lunch plans every day. Normally this does not bother me a great deal.

Because this is what they eat almost every day.

Sometimes it does.

See, these people have an unhealthy addiction to Thai food. Specifically the Thai restaurant across the street. However, the Thai restaurant across the street does not have an addiction to them. (Or making money, it seems.) While a majority of their conversations consist of whether or not they are ordering Thai and what they should do if the Thai restaurant randomly decides to not answer their phone that day, today is a different story.

Today they picked Chinese food.

I actually like Chinese food. Thai? Not so much. (Especially when they are all ordering the spiciest food they can get. I don't like spicy. I don't want to mistakenly eat burn-my-mouth-off food.) I used to be on the list of people they would invite into their lunch group. Apparently I said 'no thank you' too many times. (For the record, I have said yes more than I have said no.) I am no longer on the invite list.

Why does this bother me?

Because I am delicious!!!

Well, sometimes I would like to order Chinese food too. But I'm not the type of person that will barge into an office to be all "ME TOO!," assuming that I know what they are ordering before I overhear someone calling in the order. To be honest, Chinese food sounds an awful lot like Thai food until you get to the fried rice or white rice option.

I suppose I should get over myself and learn how to barge into people's office. It just seems so rude. And it's not like I never eat Chinese food. My daughter has finally learned that it is delicious so we order it about once a month. Occasionally, my husband even makes some on his own. Really, this whole thing about me feeling left out. I am the only one in my hallway that is not in the clique. I feel like the geeky science nerd in the middle of the cheerleading squad and I don't even like science!

I just want to belong.

Tattoos Are Awesome

I am generally a cold person. Not personality-wise. Temperature-wise. Unless I am standing/lying/sleeping in a sunny spot or outside when it is at least 85 degrees, I am probably cold. As a result, I wear a lot of long sleeve shirts and I keep a zippered sweatshirt jacket at work. (At home, it's my beloved Snuggie. Say what you will about them, they are goddamn warm.) The unfortunate side effect is that I rarely get to show off my tattoos.

Right this minute, I have three tattoos. There is a panther on the right side of my lower back, a shooting star on my left arm, and Silvermist on my right arm. Sadly, I don't have decent pictures of them. I promise that if I win this contest (more on that in a bit) I'll post tons of pictures of them.

The shooting star was the very first tattoo I got way back when I was in college. A friend of mine wanted some company while she got her nipple pierced. While I couldn't bring myself to do that, I could manage a tiny star tattoo. Call it the beginning of my rebellious phase. I thought my mother would be mortified. Her actual response? "At least you're not pregnant." Thanks, Mom.

I got the panther while I was living on my own for the very first time (no, living in a college dorm does not count as 'on your own.') in North Carolina. It was a very lonely time. Panthers are my favorite animal and I kinda needed someone to watch my back so there he is. For the record, it's actually only the outline of a panther. He's big enough that his head rests on my spine while his tail wraps up around my lower ribs. Needless to say, it was my most painful tattoo ever. I couldn't sit still long enough for the artist to finish. He kicked me out after the outline was finished and told me to come back for the coloring. I never went back.

Finally, Silvermist. This tattoo is in honor of my daughter. She is named after Morgan le Fay from the King Arthur legend. Morgan le Fay translates to Morgan of the Fairies, hence a fairy tattoo. My daughter picked out the design herself. It is my favorite tattoo and I look at it almost daily.

One of the local radio stations is running a tattoo contest. The tattoo with the most votes wins a $1000 gift certificate to a local tattoo shop. I would absolutely love to win this. I am begging everyone to vote for me as many times as possible. You can vote once per day and the contest ends April 1 at midnight. Spread the word and ask your friends to vote for me too. If I win, I will take tons of pictures - both of my current tattoos and the new ones I'd be getting. (If the artist lets me, I'll take pictures while he's inking me up.)

Here is the direct link to my tattoo.

Please vote and ask your friends to vote. The tattooed freak inside of me will love you forever if you do.

Where My Jealousy Rears Its Ugly Head

I really wasn't going to talk about this. Mostly because it's pretty embarrassing on my part. But if I don't get this stuff out of my head, it'll just fester there until something awful happens. *sigh*

Let me start off with this: My current life is not awful. I have a loving husband, my daughter is absolutely amazing, we are finally to the point that we are not drowning in debt, and things are just not bad.

However.

My younger sister somehow magically makes awesome things happen to her. I have no idea how she does it and I really want this superpower. For example: despite being unemployed (she's doing an unpaid internship right now), she is spending this week in the Dominican Republic. Both my husband and I are gainfully employed full time, yet it is unlikely that we will ever afford to leave the United States for vacation.

How does she do this, you ask?

For the past few years, she has been living rent-free in a cousin's house. Said cousin was sent to China for work; my sister's lease was coming due around that time. So my sister moved into his house. She pays for things like cable television and possibly the internet connection. As a result, for the past five years or so, her entire pile of monthly bills totals less than one month of my mortgage payment.

This makes me insanely jealous.

I have never left the country. No, I'm not counting the trip to Canada my parents made when I was a year old. However, the cousin has flown my sister to Spain, China, England, Germany, and I think Italy. And when I think about it too much, the situation brings tears to my eyes. I would love to travel and see the world. It's just not going to happen and I have to figure out a way to live with my sister's jet-setting ways while I sit in my windowless office at work.

Any suggestions?

Everybody Sucks...Sometimes

Wow. It has actually been over a week since my last post. While I know that officially makes me suck, I do have a bit of an explanation for this. As stated in my last post, I purchased a new scanner. Well, a new printer/fax/copier/scanner. The idea was that now that I have a functional scanner, I can scan childhood pictures to share with you all. (No, I was not planning on making fun of the stupid things my sister has done. And you can't prove it.) However, my mother has not given up the childhood photobooks. I know she has them. She is just procrastinating on the actual giving of them. Yeah, she sucks too.

Since I haven't actually had to have any real social contact with people outside my immediate family, I haven't even had any stories (interesting or otherwise) to tell. I suppose I could try to dig up an old story and leave out the pictures. But, really, I know you are all here to see pictures of me falling off of horses or my sister sledding in the summer.

I'll lean on my mother a bit harder. She'll give up the photos eventually.

Decision: ACCOMPLISHED

Because this blog is meant to help me be less of a wacko, when I realized that it had been three days since I talked about my lack of decision-making skills, I made the decision to use my Christmas gift card to buy a new scanner today. After a somewhat quick perusal of Walmart's website, I selected the HP Officejet 4500 All-in-One printer. Then I took an extended lunch break and picked the damn thing up.

Yes. Yes, I do.

Of course, this story wouldn't be nearly as much fun if the transaction really went that easily.

I trekked my way back to the electronics department, in search of the elusive scanner-printer-faxer-copier. (Faxer should totally be a word.) While I was slightly distracted by the sound systems (because I also need a new speaker system for my fitness classes), I managed to find the printers by myself without a ton of trouble. The trouble began when I noticed that the 4500 on the shelves did not say it was wireless. Wireless is important in our cluttered household. It was also about $30 cheaper. Hrm. So I pulled it off the shelf to go ask the man at the counter. (Note: I hate asking employees questions. I try to know as much about what I want so I can pluck it off the shelf, pay for it, and leave with as little conversation as possible.)

The poor man at the counter was almost there by himself (there was a woman who didn't seem particularly interested in working) and there were three other people there to ask him questions. Normally, I would say "forget it" and go home empty-handed. Not today, my friends. Not today. I waited a little while until he wasn't as busy. As the very nice man tried to figure out what was going on, he was interrupted by some guy asking when their next shipment of pre-paid phones was arriving. I gave the man a little glare, but Nice Walmart Man handled the situation better. He answered the man's question as he typed my printer information into his computer.

But the computer still said the wireless printer should be where it was not. Walmart Man declared he would check "In The Back." I've worked retail. I know that usually means you are going to go into the breakroom and read a training poster or something. However, Walmart Man returned with my desired product!

Yay, Mr. Walmart Man!

And now I have returned to my desk, happily knowing that I have truly made a decision. The next obstacle? Getting my husband to set it up.

The Art of the Non-Decision

I have a very difficult time making decisions. What if the choice I make is wrong? What if I end up regretting it FOREVER?

Yes, it will change everything.

No, I am not exaggerating. I frequently fret about things for an extremely long time.

For example: About 12 years ago, my aunt asked me to babysit her kids for a week. Since I didn't have a job at that point, it wasn't a problem. She paid me well for it. When her ex-husband came up pick up the kids at the end of the week, he gave me more money. I figured the two of them had talked about it and decided that, since I was poor and jobless, they would pay me a bit extra for watching two kids for five whole days. Alas, I was incorrect. I got a phone call from my mother a few days later telling me how disappointed my aunt was that I took the second offering of money. As a result, I had to give the money back. (I was lucky enough to have landed a job by this point.) To this day, I worry that my aunt still thinks I'm a bad person for taking the offered money.

And yes, I do know how ridiculous that sounds. I'm sure that, twelve years later, she has forgotten all about it. But that doesn't matter to my messed up brain. Every time I see her, I wait for the venomous comments to arise.

You suck.

Anyway, this is just an example of the reasoning behind why I can't make a decision properly. Right now, I want to buy a new scanner. Our current one is so old, it doesn't even work with our computer drivers any more. So a new one is necessary. However, I also need more fitness clothes since I will be teaching five dance-fitness classes each week beginning in April. I have a $50 gift certificate that my in-laws gave me for Christmas that I haven't used because I can't decide which would be better to purchase.

This is me every single day.

Maybe I should just hire someone to make decisions for me. Though that would require making a decision on who will make my decisions.....it is an endless loop of angst.

Laryngitis = loss of voice

As I noted the other day, I have been ill for the past week and a half. Since Monday, I have been rendered unable to speak. And, yes, that is as terrible as it sounds. Yesterday, I had enough of this no-talking bullshit and went to the doctor where I was promptly diagnosed with a sinus infection and sent on my way to collect my antibiotics.

This was not quite as easy as it sounds though.

See, by yesterday afternoon, my voice had completely left me. On Monday and Tuesday, I was very, very raspy but I could still communicate if absolutely necessary. My only form of communication yesterday was Charades.

Or mime. Whichever sounds cooler.

I managed to make it past the receptionist by merely handing over my insurance card and pointing to my name when she asked who I was. I made it past the physician's assistant by holding my neck and making pathetic raspy noises. The doctor, however, was not as easily conquered. Instead of just asking yes or no questions, she insisted on asking things like "How long has this been going on?"  I think she noticed how miserable this whole talking thing was making me. Within 10 minutes, she electronically sent my prescription to my pharmacy and sent me on my way.

This was my expression when I got in the car.

But my day was not over. I promised my mother that I would stop by to teach her how to make a Facebook page. (Point and click has a new meaning.) While I was there, the bowling pro shop called to tell me that my new bowling shoes were in. Of course, new bowling shoes trumps talking.

This is my crew.

Somehow, I managed to pay for my shoes without much difficulty. Mime must be the international language. As I waited for my mother to order her new ball, I noticed a few other patrons also picking up new shoes. One of the women happened to order the exact same shoes I did. Here is where I made my fatal mistake. I smiled and pointed to her shoes then my box while whispering "I got the same shoes!" When the women started talking to me about bowling shoes, I forced out an "I'm sorry but I have laryngitis." Apparently, this means "Please strike up a conversation with me" in bowlanese because then they proceeded to ask me about my bowling life, which is really quite boring. Thankfully, my mother finished her stuff and we could leave.

This still left the pharmacy though.

Once again, I kindly handed over my insurance card when asked for my name. I nodded vigorously when asked if that was my only prescription. But then I had to ask for the not-so-over-the-counter decongestant that the doctor also wanted me to take. Of course, this meant a conversation. "How many tablets?" "12 hour or 24 hour?" "D or DM or ABSGGLKN?" The pharmacist took pity on me and tried to stand as close as he could so I didn't have to try to speak loudly. Once again:

Damn skippy.

The final bout was with a stylist. Since I had stayed home from work, it was up to me to take my daughter to tap class. Her tap teacher is a nurse so I easily got by with the hand/neck gesture and a mouthed "laryngitis." But then I decided to get my bushy eyebrows waxed.

This is the Before picture.

I apologized to the stylist and told her of my predicament. She politely responded with a "That's OK" before starting to talk to me about her own eyebrow waxing and how my hair was super curly and blah blah blah. I forced a smile and hoped she didn't really want me to answer her babbling. Thankfully, it seemed that she was just fine on her own and I made it out of the salon looking much better.

I just don't understand it though. Everyone that I had to interact with tried to start up an actual conversation with me, despite that every single time I told them I couldn't speak. Do people not understand what laryngitis is? Do they think that I purposely sound like an old woman that smokes five packs of cigarettes a day?

According to the doctor, I should be better by tomorrow. I'm betting it'll be more like Monday, from the sounds of it. Unfortunately, my husband and I have to go to a wedding on Saturday night. I have the feeling that my Saturday will be an awful lot like my Wednesday.

The Quest for Quietness

Alas, I have not been following up on the "three posts per week" thing. I blame the alien illness that has taken over my body.

Procrastination is not an illness. Honestly.

While I have been continuing with my normal routing of going to work and making people want to exercise and all that, I just haven't had the energy to blog about anything. Well, last night's story kinda takes the cake.

I teach Zumba® four nights each week. Despite not feeling 100%, I dragged my butt into class last night. I told the women that I had a sore throat so I wouldn't be talking/yelling as much as normal. Apparently someone forgot to tell my brain that. Because I was yelling all over the place. The result? I lost my voice last night. When I got home, I vowed to be completely silent all night in the hopes that my voice would return by morning so I could go to work. 

Of course, this meant that my dear husband and darling daughter had to take complete advantage over the fact that I could not yell at them to do the stuff they <i>should</i> be doing. 


By the time I get home from my class, it is a little after 8:00PM. My daughter is supposed to go to bed at 8:30PM. Instead of feeding her dinner while I was out, my husband decided to wait until I got home to start dinner. Oh, and he bought a video game for her to play and they started that too. 

You are just asking me to hurt you, you know.

Since I had no voice, I could not yell at them to get the hell off the video games and eat dinner so the kid could go to bed. Instead, I had to make angry hand gestures. 


*sigh*


After finally getting the kidlet fed and in bed, I decided to watch some television as my husband played (yet another) game on his new PlayStation Vita. Yes, my husband's video games tend to be the bane of my existence. But this means he wasn't particularly paying attention to the TV. Resulting in:


Me: *trying to laugh silently*
Husband: What?
Me: *points to the TV*
Husband: *grunt*


And this went on quite a few times since I like to watch comedies. In reality, I think they just wanted to make me talk as much as possible so I would lose my voice completely. I can't yell at them if I can't speak.


I should also note that I am trying to be super quiet today too. My voice isn't as bad as it was last night but it's definitely nowhere near better. Unfortunately, part of my job is answering telephones and people just aren't considerate enough to not call when I'm sick. Maybe I'll be lucky and this afternoon will be quiet.

The Social Calm

Last time, I told you about a birthday party my daughter attended and I promised to tell you about her bowling league. My daughter is super-active. Besides taking two dance classes a week, she is also in a children's bowling league that meets every Saturday morning. It means that every Saturday morning, I have to sit at a table with a couple of other moms and find things to talk about for about an hour.

This is what one hour of social time feels like.

A majority of the time, I sit quietly and watch my daughter bowl. Then I give her tips on how to improve. But sometimes the moms want to engage in actual conversation. Unfortunately, I just don't have a lot to talk about. Luckily, the other moms are more than willing to pick up my conversational slack.

This is usually my response when people start babbling.

Amazingly, I don't feel uncomfortable at bowling. Maybe it's because there is a very small group of us (there are only 5 kids in the league) and we're all focused on our kids. Any conversation that takes place is just something to fill in the gaps when our kids aren't up. It's nice to have someplace where I can be social if I want but it's also fine for me to not say a word beyond 'hello' and 'see you next week.'

The Problem with Parties

Now that it has been for-freaking-ever since I last updated, I suppose I shall tell you about the weekend's social endeavors, in no particular order. Today's edition? The birthday party. This birthday party took place at The Works. The Works is an arcade/restaurant/pit of hell where misbehaving children roam free while their parents sit at the bar and drink.

See? Doesn't that make the place look like FUN?

This is also where my daughter had her birthday party last year. According to the birthday child's mother, that is why they chose this venue for their party. We are totally trend-setters. Well, at least my daughter is.

My daughter also has pink highlights in her hair, which makes her the awesomest 9-year old EVER.

 Usually, there are a couple of mothers that I can sort of latch onto socially. We mostly stand nearby and make sure the children aren't dying while we discuss bland things like school and extra-curricular activities. At worst, my husband is there to keep me company. This time around, neither happened. The only parent I knew was the birthday child's mother, who was obviously busy doing birthday things like taking pictures and eating cake. I found a nice corner where I could play Hanging With Friends with my sister all afternoon, while keeping an eye on my daughter to make sure she didn't choke on her pizza or something.

I hereby claim this corner in the name of Cassandra!

After the eating had finished, the kids went into the BALLOCITY. *dun dun duuuuun* It's a big climby thing where kids can shoot balls at each other or something. It's a kid-thing. I've never set foot in it, to be honest. Where I normally would wait by the exit with the other mothers, I felt lame standing there by myself. So I went to the arcade, where I played Percussion Master like the dork I am.

Hells, yeah.

Then I wandered around until it was time to fish my daughter from the depths of the BALLOCITY. *dun dun duuuuun* Yes, sadly, playing video games with my 9-year old daughter was the most social interaction I had all weekend. Laaame.

Next time, I will tell you the tale of the bowling league moms. I really need to stop signing my kid up for stuff.

The Torment of Socialization

I am most comfortable when I am all by myself. When I am with family (outside of my husband and daughter) or a small group of friends, I am at a 3 or 4 on the Freak Out Scale. (10 would be 'OMFG, I can't deal. I'll be hiding under my bed. Thx.') I can smile and bear it but the inner monologue is rumbling on.

'What if I say something wrong?'
'Is that joke funny? Am I the only one who thinks it's funny?'
'Everyone thinks I'm an idiot. Sure, I'm answering a lot of these trivia questions but that doesn't make me SMART.' (My family plays a lot of board games together.)
'They're still holding a grudge for that minor kerfluffle that happened 10 years ago.' (My 'reality' sensor knows that this isn't the case and those involved have probably forgotten all about it. I don't forget.)

And this is when I'm with my family. Throw in some strangers and that anxiety level steadily rises.

There are two events happening this weekend. Both are high-anxiety level events. Luckily, I can only attend one. Two might make my brain explode.

The attended event is a birthday party for one of my daughter's friends. I have no idea who will be there, which is a mental killer to begin with. Add in the fact that the party is taking place at an arcade-type area where I am not comfortable just dropping my daughter off. I know that I will be expected to chat with the moms while the kids play.  Anxiety Level? 5 to 6

The event I will not be attending is a mix of a rehearsal dinner, bachelor party, and bachelorette party for my husband's best friend and his soon-to-be wife. Thanks to Facebook, I have a good idea of the guests at this party. However, these are all people that are my husband's college friends. While they are kind and accepting people, I do not count them as my friends. We're just very different types of people. As a result, I tend to feel uncomfortable around them. By no fault of theirs, trust me. It is all in my head. Anxiety level? 5 to 6

I'm not really sure if it is possible to fix this problem. After all, it's not like I have a breakdown every time a new social situation comes up. I am capable of smiling and pretending things are OK. However, every time words leave my mouth, I am worried that someone thinks what I am saying is dumb or ignorant. As a result, I frequently just say nothing.

The Trials of Body Image

Like most women, I have an issue with how I view my body. There is this disconnect between how I feel I look, how I think I look, and how I actually look. Luckily, this isn't something that comes up on a daily basis. But once in awhile I catch myself getting a little depressed about it.

In my normal day-to-day life, I feel like I look like this:

 

 

 

Sexy!

However, I don't actually own any full-length mirrors. The only mirror in my house is the one in the bathroom, which pretty much only reflects my head down to my shoulders. As a result, when I occasionally find myself in front of a full-length mirror, I think I look like this:

Sometimes my outfits are this unfortunate too.

In reality, I know I am somewhere in between. I don't own a scale so I can't really rattle off my weight off the top of my head. The last time I was weighed, which was probably about two years ago, I weighed approximately 170 lbs. Since then, I started teaching Zumba classes twice a week. (I've recently upped that to four times a week.) Here is what I do know: a size 14 pair of jeans is a little too snug on me while a size 16  is pretty big. Of course, this is mostly because I still have a 'baby gut' from when I was pregnant. The 14 would fit my waist but not my hips. The 16 fits my hips but is huge around my waist. I wear the 16, which makes me feel thinner.

Closer to reality

What does this mean for my mental state? It means that, like a lot of women, once in awhile I have a "I'm so fat" breakdown. It doesn't happen often but it does happen. And when the day comes that I will, once again, fit into a size 10, I will loudly celebrate my achievement.

There is that bag of Doritos though....

Maybe I'll aim for really fitting into a size 14 first.

The Trouble With Blogging

The vague point of this blog is to get myself out of my own head. I frequently think that others think badly of me and, therefore, spend a lot of time not saying or doing things. For example, I have been thinking of what to write as my next post here. The thought process goes a lot like this:

"Ooh, I should write about this!"
"Why? No one will want to read about that. It's not even funny!"
"It doesn't HAVE to be funny."
"Why else would anyone want to read what you write? It's not like you're informative."
"Maybe you're right. Let's see if I can find something else...."

When I realize I have nothing to say

And so on and so forth.

So this is where I make a valid attempt to stop talking myself out of everything. No, these posts may not always be funny or informative or even interesting. However, they will be written. And they will be written at least three times each week.

I can do this.

The Trauma of Hair

I really dislike being "normal" or the same as everyone else. I want to stand out from the crowd and proudly scream I'm a freak.

Well, maybe not to that extreme.

Anyway, one of the few things I really have control over is my hair. When my daughter was very young, my hair was shoulder length. Since I have very curly hair, it was mostly kept in ponytails so it wouldn't look like a hot mess.

When my daughter got older, I decided to chop it all off. I loved it. My daughter, not so much. My hair was finally short enough to look nice. No more afro for me! And I was fine experimenting with it. After all, it's just hair, right? If I hate it, it'll grow back.

Jump to last night. I finally decided that I was sick and tired of all my grey hair. Not to mention that it was starting to get embarrassing plucking the white strands at work. I had to get rid of them somehow!

Yuck.

 

 

 

So I stopped by Ulta on the way home and picked up a box of hair dye. Now...in reality, I want Sharon Osbourne's hair.

Isn't that GORGEOUS?

 But, for some reason, I have it set in my mind that my fairly conservative accountant boss would flip his lid if I came in with such an unnatural hair color. So I settled for the reddest box of over-the-counter hair dye I could get. This is where the trauma part comes in.

30 minutes is a really long time to wait

For those of you that don't dye your hair, you should know that the color that comes out of the bottle is not really the color that your hair will be after all your hard work. While I know this, my panic-riddled brain does not. So while I was waiting the 30 minutes for the super-red dye to penetrate my hair shaft, my brain had this conversation with itself:

"OMG. That is REALLY red."
"But you wanted really red."
"But this is REALLY REALLY RED. Is it going to look freakish? What if the boss freaks out and fires me because I look like a hoodlum?"
"The boss is on vacation for another week and a half. By the time he gets back, the color will have faded. Besides, it will not be that red after you wash the leftover dye out. It will be fine."
"But....but.....but....RED."

I almost gave in and rinsed my hair 10 minutes early, but I stayed strong. After the full 30 minutes, I rinsed my hair and properly conditioned it. Since I just towel dried it (since I do not own a blow dryer), I knew the color still wouldn't be true.

Commence Freak Out #2

It still looked really really red. Red enough that my brain went into overdrive again. It even got to the point where I pulled my husband into the kitchen, where the light is better, to ask him if I looked like a circus freak. He assured me that I did not. I did not believe him.

Once again, I had a mini-freak out this morning. This time I pulled my daughter into the kitchen, where the light is better, to ask her if I looked like a circus freak. She assured me that I did not. I did not believe her.

The final result

It wasn't until three different people at work told me that my hair looked good and they really liked the color that I decided that I did not, fact, ruin my life by dying my hair red. In reality, it's not even that red. Considering I didn't bleach my black hair beforehand, only my grey got colored. Instead of having grey hair, now I have coppery-colored highlights. I love them.

One day I'll have the courage to get Sharon Osbourne hair though. It just might take awhile to get there.