Not ready to age gracefully
I knew intellectually this time would come, eventually. I always thought that I'd be mature about it, accepting my fate with some dignity and perhaps a bit a levity. Actually, that's a flat lie. I was depressed most of my teenage years, and never really thought I'd live to see drinking age, let alone twenty-three. It didn't really hit me that I was going to have a full-fledged adulthood until I was standing there in the sun with my BA in hand and wondered, "Well f**K. Now what?" So worrying about how I was going to accept the slippery decline from my physical peak just wasn't a high priority for me.
Until this holiday weekend, when I found four grey hairs.
For those that missed it above and to the side, I AM TWENTY-f**kING-THREE. I'm not ready for this shit! I wanted at least another five years before these kind of problems started entering my life. But no, not my body. In fact I should have known my hair would turn traitor. It knows it is my best, most distinctive physical feature, which is probably the single most Hispanic statement I will ever make*, but it is the truth. And like it has been doing every chance it has ever been given, it's warped little personality has spawned a new way to drive me batty.
On the plus side, though, in about two years I'm not going to be carded anywhere near as often.
There were other events this weekend, shadowed other by this one, including a flight up to visit my sister in Washington state. The flight there and back was fantastic, as both airport and plane was filled with college freshmen, but once on the ground up there I noticed a certain something lacking. Apparently, in Washington horn blasting, creative swearing, and colorful hand gestures while driving are defined as road rage and penalized. This idea is perplexing to me, since you can scarcely cross an intersection, let alone change lanes on the freeway, without one or all three of the above actions taking place. Speeding is considered four miles over the speed limit and fined $75 dollars per mile. If California, hell just Los Angeles county, adopted similar practices, the state would be in the black within a month.
And none of us would have our licenses anymore.
*In order to illustrate the seriousness of this problem, consider the following quote from Project Rungay. Switch it to masculine terms, and this is pretty much me. My hair is that good.
What is it about Latin women and hair? They treat their hair like it was a second set of tits on top of their head. Something to adorn, draw attention to, play with, and drive the men crazy. You can tell [she] loves her hair. She should. It's gorgeous. Just tame enough to be considered professional-looking and just wild enough to make people wonder what she looks like naked.
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