Why do they call gray hairs gray hairs? They're not gray. They're sparkling white highlights in a sea of chocolate. I'll never understand, but I suppose I'll let them lie.
My mom had the most beautiful gray hair-- everyone commented on it. Each strand of her hair was either inky black or dazzling white; there was no in-between. If you have gray hair like that, don't dye it. It's a crime against humanity to cover up such a lovely display of experience and wisdom.
My gray hairs are considerably less attractive than my mom's. For one, none of the gray hairs on my head will be pigeonholed into a single hair color-- instead, they hem-haw around, an inch white, and inch brown. (I have not only found six but allowed them to continue growing. I'm, like, a preservationist or something.) They're ninnies about growing up without their cloak of melanin or whatever colors hair, and they shouldn't be.
I found my first gray hair when I was 20.5 years old, and I nearly started crying when I saw it. It was a mark of barren, cold, lonely woman, and an awful personal symbol. Now almost six years later I'm surprised not at the 600% increase of known gray hairs but my serene acceptance of them... minus the mini freak-out I had during law school orientation upon discovery of the temple-dwelling gray hairs. I really do see my little white intruders as genuine signs of maturity. A semi-mastered life, even if I sometimes get the giggles when talking about "duty" too long. Even if I'm in school at age 26. And even if my hair is still dominated by brown. I'm a-growin' up into a real live woman, one in which I am proud, my family can be proud, and my mom would have bragged about to total strangers till they vomited or ran away screaming. I'd say such weighty praise (even if self-delivered; I hope you excuse me) is worth the small burden of some blossoming silver strands.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Sunshine and butterflies
You know how life and your mood oscillate? My life and mood are currently great. Divine. Superb. I'm enjoying this high as long as I can.
My school break and celebrated return (ha!) have been good for me. My weird acne is gone. My teeth are whitened. My relationships are healthy. My heart can stand it when I run. My apartment isn't infested with roaches. I didn't fail out of my first semester (so far). Life is good.
Today I went on my first longish run. Yesterday I was a stinker and sat around dirtying dishes and watching Law & Order to beef up for a semester of Criminal law, so before I went to bed (early) last night I told myself that Sunday would be no fun: I had to run over six miles if it took all day, and I had to do my reading for the first days of classes. I was mentally preparing to be unprepared mentally.
This morning it took 30 minutes to get up and out for my run, but I did--even though it was in the 20s and flurrying. (I apologize for abusing those around me by wearing tights, but sacrifices had to be made.) I decided to run to Forest Park, around, and back for a 6.5 mile run; I could add bells and whistles to next week's run, but for today the loop had to be conquered. I told myself to chill out and run 11:00 pace if I wanted. I told myself to walk if I got tired. I allowed myself to bring my nano along for the party. All was well.
Two miles in some adorable blonde passed me. I was sad, but people get passed, especially me. Then, 2 miles later, I was a breath away from catching her on a steep, short hill; presumably horrified that such a large spandex-clad butt could catch her, blondie picked up the pace. I did too. By mile 5 we were busting down the trail, running sub-9 minute pace. She cut the course once and got through two lights for which I had to stop, so I never caught her. But when I turned to run home, she turned around with what I think was a look of relief; her pursuer had decided to chase other things, like a shower.
But I'll catch her next time. My slow run ended up being about 5 minutes faster than expected, including stoplight breaks. I'm torn about whether or not I should stop my watch when waiting for lights. On one hand, it's not time during which I'm covering the distance. On the other, the mandatory break may make me faster after the rest. I'm currently not stopping (my watch) for lights, but I think I might switch; what do you guys do?
My school break and celebrated return (ha!) have been good for me. My weird acne is gone. My teeth are whitened. My relationships are healthy. My heart can stand it when I run. My apartment isn't infested with roaches. I didn't fail out of my first semester (so far). Life is good.
Today I went on my first longish run. Yesterday I was a stinker and sat around dirtying dishes and watching Law & Order to beef up for a semester of Criminal law, so before I went to bed (early) last night I told myself that Sunday would be no fun: I had to run over six miles if it took all day, and I had to do my reading for the first days of classes. I was mentally preparing to be unprepared mentally.
This morning it took 30 minutes to get up and out for my run, but I did--even though it was in the 20s and flurrying. (I apologize for abusing those around me by wearing tights, but sacrifices had to be made.) I decided to run to Forest Park, around, and back for a 6.5 mile run; I could add bells and whistles to next week's run, but for today the loop had to be conquered. I told myself to chill out and run 11:00 pace if I wanted. I told myself to walk if I got tired. I allowed myself to bring my nano along for the party. All was well.
Two miles in some adorable blonde passed me. I was sad, but people get passed, especially me. Then, 2 miles later, I was a breath away from catching her on a steep, short hill; presumably horrified that such a large spandex-clad butt could catch her, blondie picked up the pace. I did too. By mile 5 we were busting down the trail, running sub-9 minute pace. She cut the course once and got through two lights for which I had to stop, so I never caught her. But when I turned to run home, she turned around with what I think was a look of relief; her pursuer had decided to chase other things, like a shower.
But I'll catch her next time. My slow run ended up being about 5 minutes faster than expected, including stoplight breaks. I'm torn about whether or not I should stop my watch when waiting for lights. On one hand, it's not time during which I'm covering the distance. On the other, the mandatory break may make me faster after the rest. I'm currently not stopping (my watch) for lights, but I think I might switch; what do you guys do?
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