Emily A. does not live in the Boise area with her husband and their two boys, ages 5 and 4. She does not enjoy writing or blogging in any way. She is glad that she does not have time to do it more. She hates going out to eat, but prefers to spend hours slaving over a hot stove just to have two kids refuse to eat what she puts in front of them. Her family and friends would describe her as quiet, shy and borderline antisocial. This is not her blog: http://emlouisa.com
When I was little my grandpa would give me big hugs, then rub his coarse whiskers all over my face. I would giggle and tell him to stop, hating and loving it all at the same time. Grandpa is gone now, but his legacy lives in me.
I have chin whiskers.
Cool on Gramps, not so cool on a thirty year old female. Yes, I said thirty. And yes, I said female. My birthday isn’t until next week but I’m already embracing it, what with the coarse chin hairs and all.
I pluck, I wax. I can’t keep up with the plucking anymore. It’s like weeding single blades of grass in the lawn. You can pluck and pluck and not get anywhere. It just keeps growing back. Dang grass.
Waxing turns my skin red for three days so I don’t choose this option unless I am going to be out of the public eye. You can only imagine how often this happens. So I put it off until pictures of Grandpa and me look strikingly similar, then go in for an overdue session. Luckily my sister (whose face and chin are hairless, by the way) is a waxer. She scolds me for waiting so long, then rips sections of my chin and shows it to me so we can both say “Ew!”
The other option is laser hair removal. I’m seriously considering it, but I’d rather have a new couch.
Friday night I picked up our babysitter. “Good Vibrations” by Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch was on the radio and I couldn’t stifle my enthusiasm. “This reminds me of when I was in sixth grade!” I announced, apparently feeling the good vibrations. “I know this song. It’s so cool!” she replied, “I love old school music!”
Ah, old school music. Marky Mark certainly qualifies. For as long as males (unfortunately) have worn baggy pants with boxers sticking out we have had Marky Mark. Almost twenty years. And my, how the tables have turned. I remember appeasing the woman I babysat for sixteen years ago, telling her that REO Speedwagon “ruled” when she rocked out to it on her way to take me home. I thought she was super old. She was probably younger than I am now.
Now it’s my turn to be thirty. I look back at the past few years and I’m glad that I’m here. My life doesn’t give me much to complain about these days. I have two great little boys, a comfortable house, a fabulous husband, and for the most part my health. It’s a nice place to be.
I used to think thirty was old. I used to think size 8 was fat. I used to think that parents who didn’t potty train their kids before Sunbeams were lazy. I used to have it all figured out.
I’ll take a few strands of gray hair and some chin whiskers that need an occasional plucking (or waxing) if, in turn, I am granted wisdom.