After a quicky dinner of Swedish meatballs (out of the freezer… love it when I plan ahead) I was stretched out on the couch, as I am wont to do, and Esteban had just proposed a Friday night trip to the Hundred Dollar Store for a new showerhead. We have one of those supposed rainfall shower heads, but it’s more of a gentle rain, not so much a deluge as you would prefer. Or maybe as I would prefer. I don’t know, I have a lot of like, square inches that need to be doused, so maybe for the average person, the gentle fall of droplets is sufficient, but while showering, I am always left a little wanting. Esteban’s been regularly warring with the showerhead since we brought it home, and had just come off of a very frustrating few days where he’d dismantle the beast, soak it in calcium deposit remover, then put it back together whenever we’d need to shower. He did this repeatedly, thinking that it just didn’t have a long enough soak, but had just come to the conclusion that perhaps the problem was somewhere further up inside the contraption and really, maybe we should just call it a day with the stupid shower head, because while it wasn’t here when we moved in, it was one of the very first little home improvements we made, and really, no one is handing down a showerhead to their grandchildren, so the things just aren’t meant to be legacy hardware, right? Especially not this piece of crap. He postulated that maybe it sad something about us, something depressing, that we were about to get up and go to Home Depot on a Friday night, but quite frankly, I was perfectly fine with that. Saturday mornings at the Depot are a nightmare, so if we could get that off our plate, rock on. Besides, I said, I was anxious to take a long shower and deforest my month’s long growth of leg hair.
“Really? You’re going to shave it? After you conquered your fear of the stubble?”
“Yeah… I mean, look at it! Just look!” I hiked up the bottom of my yoga pant and wiggled my foot around at him.
“You know, I think you should take this to the logical conclusion.”
“Shaving? I got a new Mach 3 and a second set of replacement blades if I run out.”
“No, babe. I mean, braiding. You should let it go for another month and see how long it will get.” He touched my calf as though petting a cat. “It’s so soft. It’s not bothering you, is it?”
“Well, I’ve had three dreams about my leg hair. I think that’s a sign that I should, you know, get rid of it.”
“No! That’s a sign that you still have some psychological, you know, hurdles to work on. Let it ride until cropped pants season!”
I laughed and decided that he was insane. Off we went to Home Depot, bought a showerhead and a bunch of light bulbs and then got rootbeer floats and drove home, where Esteban put up the new fixture and I walked around replacing lightbulbs. We are utter fucking rock stars. When I took a shower, I was amazed by how much faster I could get things done. I no longer had to wait a minute while my short hair got saturated… it happened in seconds! In fact, I was completely done in about four minutes. I thought about grabbing the shaving cream and razor, but then… how can I fully appreciate the quick shower if I screwed it up by spending 10 minutes deSasquatching myself? I decided it can wait another week. Especially if Esteban seems to be kind of grooving on the whole Woodstock thing. And I may get it waxed too, per your suggestions in the comments, because it seems a shame to waste the opportunity. I actually have my own waxing kit (because I’m that way) but I’d probably go into the spa and have someone else do it. I tend to make a mess with the wax anyway, so it’s just a much better thing to happen on someone else’s turf.
And then I read the preceding paragraph and seriously, I don’t even recognize myself anymore. Is this what aging is about? Is this how those old ladies end up with the giant chin hairs and major mustaches? Because they look in the mirror and go “Nah, who gives a shit?” What will be the next standard I will let drop? White before Memorial Day? Clothes from Wal-mart? Putting a foam piece of cheese on my head?
shudder
I can’t believe that I’m almost done with my Master’s degree. I’m supposedly graduating in seven weeks, which is just bizarre and weird to imagine. I say “supposedly” because I still have to get a passing grade in my lit class and get my Master’s project approved and have my committee say that yes, they like me, they really really like me. I have to order a cap and gown, and things like graduation announcements and stuff. I’m such a sucker for that crap. I loaded up my cart on Jostens with a shitload of stuff, things I’m sure I don’t even need, but somehow the idea of invitations with my name printed on them? And Summa Cum Laude under it? Giddy! Absolutely giddy.
They have a thing where you can get a faux diploma printed up, or I guess it’s a certificate of appreciation for someone special you feel really helped you in your education, and immediately, I decided to get one for Esteban, because he is absolutely my center.
And then I was thinking about who else would get one, and I realized that I’ve pretty much documented my entire quest for this degree on this here website, and a lot of the encouragement and support has come from the comments and emails I’ve received from you guys. Thank you for that. I can honestly say that if I hadn’t been able to vent and sort out my thoughts and frustration on this site, I don’t know that I would have made it through to the other side. In fact, I can honestly tell you that I’ve never had more encouragement on my writing from any other source than the people who read this site. Not from Esteban, not from my teachers, not from anyone. And I try not to front like a big fancy artiste, and try to keep the more annoyingly purple prose away from this white page with the fairy on the top, and I know that sometimes it doesn’t always work and that you forgive me anyway. And for that, you can’t even imagine how much I love you guys.
Thank you. More than you know. Thank you.
