The first time was after seeing the horrifying chop and color job the hack stylist I went to this afternoon gave me. I went to her because I could not wait any longer for an appointment with my regular stylist, Taylor. (Taylor, I will never stray again, I swear. I have learned my lesson in the most painful way possible.) My hair is now a very odd shade of light brown, and the cut is NOT BECOMING, and I feel like the frumpiest frump that ever frumped. I find this wildly ironic, since just YESTERDAY I commented on a hair related post over at MMW, leaving advice about how to get a good haircut. The universe is punishing me for my hubris, obviously.
My old haircut:
My new haircut:
The second time was on the way home from Walgreens. I have an overactive imagination and always have, something I've alluded to in other posts. I tend to daydream a lot. I mean, I think I mostly have my mental health, but I know that I do an extraordinary amount of daydreaming. Sometimes when I’m feeling hormonal and I have errands to run alone, I’ll turn my IPOD to the “melancholy” playlist and let my imagination run wild, because it's cathartic to cry now and then, and I figure it's better to have an imaginary reason to cry than to come home and pick a fight with my husband over nothing. I’ll come home all teary eyed and will hug him and kiss him tenderly and tell him somberly how very much I love him, and he’ll just sigh, “You imagined I died again, didn’t you?” And I will lie, "No, no, I just love you so much. No particular reason. But, uh, hold me." (My husband spends a lot of time rolling his eyes.)Today I started imagining what would happen if there was a fire in the house and my husband went back inside to get the dog but was tragically crushed by a beam, and the dog got out but my husband died. And then I imagined that I spoke at his funeral and told the world how much I loved him, and what a wonderful man he was, and how it was so unfair that he was taken from us at such a young age.
This had the three pronged effect of 1) making me sob all the way home as I gave the pretend eulogy, 2) making me love my husband even more passionately than before because he not only was an amazing, wonderful, fantastic man, but also he gave his life for a dog, and how selfless is that, and 3) giving me yet another reason to hate the dog. As if I needed another reason.
Behold, the evil creature who killed my husband. Er, in my imagination:
I did not want my husband to know about this particular episode of CRAZY, so I wiped away all of the tears before I went inside. (I can picture you all right now, nervously edging away from the crazy lady, clicking on other links to get away as quickly as possible.)
The third time I cried was when I tucked my son into bed and he made me kneel down next to him so that he could stroke my face and hug me and try to force me to lie down with him until he fell asleep. “You stay right here with me Mom. Carter love you real nice Momma.” It was so funny, and so cute, and I suddenly realized he is getting old way too fast and I can’t stop it from happening, and soon he will be a teenager and he will hate me, because all teenagers hate me instinctively. So I sat and cried on his bed after he fell asleep, then wandered around the house feeling melancholy and sniffling.
The fourth time I cried was after my husband left to go work out. I sat on the couch and worked on my laptop and watched the Biggest Loser. They did a challenge about tempting foods, which made me hungry, so I ate the rest of the bag of candy corns I had hidden in a drawer (in case of emergency). Then I cried again, because, seriously, what kind of loser eats candy while watching a weight loss show, while her husband is off working out? That would be ME.
Good heavens, I hope this is PMS and not pregnancy.