Midlife Crisis Haircut

Upward flag football started tonight for Mr. Smarty Pants. Lots of the same kids are on the team from soccer, which is great. The moms are nice, and he likes the kids. Double bonus. It's always fun talking about our gardens and our kids.

Mid-morning I had a mild self-pity/midlife crisis attack, which ended up with a visit to my hairdresser. My hair is now much, much shorter, should be much easier to deal with, and it doesn't feel like mom hair. It was either that or go get a tattoo and/or pierce something.

A haircut seemed like a safer option, which just proves I'm getting older and perhaps a little wiser. Plus, the haircut was much less expensive.

I may go back next week and give in to vanity, get some lowlights or somesuch to hide the couple of small sections which have been coming in more grayish than brownish. I am only 32. I am not ready to feel old.

The beloved geek likes it. Mr. Smarty Pants says I look like a girl clown and wants my old hair back tomorrow. Mr. Autism had no comment, but did muss up my hair a bit as soon as he got off the bus. I'll take that as a sign of approval.

Tomorrow morning the little munchkin from down the street is visiting, and we shall make cookies and practice ABCs. Tomorrow afternoon, I will write like my keyboard is on fire- vigorously and with quick strokes. I will conquer the stumbling block chapter.

I'm not going to worry about housework tomorrow afternoon. I'll sweep in the morning since the munchkin plays on the floor, I'll do the dishes because it's just nasty not to, but everything else can wait. There are clothes in all of our respective closets and at least one of the bathrooms is very clean. If I want to finish this book, if I want to shake this funky mood, if I want to feel more like a writer, I have to put the book ahead of the housework.

I even have to put it ahead of this new Ebay-ing project. The geek can help with that one. He can't help me write the book. And the house never stays clean anyways. Mr. Autism sees to that. Mr. Smarty Pants can help me in the garden this weekend. It'll be good for him. A 7 year old can pull weeds. I did. No one can write my book but me. If I want to finish it, I have to put in the time. The best time for writing is when the kids are in school. I need to use that time well.

If I'm unhappy, I have to change things. It has to go beyond a haircut. The process of writing makes me happy. I imagine that finishing the first draft would make me ecstatic. I need to take myself seriously as a writer or I will never be a published writer, always a putterer.

After I drop the boys off at their grandparents' house, I'm going to put on a party dress even though I know I need to lose weight and be as pretty as I can be. My beloved geek and I will have a date night, and for once we won't spend half the night talking about the kids. If our marriage isn't as romantical as it could be, it's time to change that.

I need to take responsibility for my life. No more excuses. I'm unhappy and stressed out. I admit it. I know there are some good reasons. I also know there are ways to fix it, and instead of having a pity party for the next decade or two, I'm going to get started. It is my life, after all.

And if I falter, I'm going to reread this post as many times as it takes to get me fired up again.

I'd better make sure there's enough coffee. I have a feeling this is going to take a lot of energy.