I'm Twelve

TTHFCIF

No, really.

Ever since I found out I have a date on Saturday, I've been cropping new zits with alarming and redoubling frequency.

That's *so* twelve.

Know what? It's not Murphy's Law. It's not stress. It's the fact that I've been scrubbing and buffing and exfoliating and masquing and moisturising and night-creaming and... my face is in rebellion.

I imagine it saying, "Bleagh!" and spitting out another screaming zit† every time I come near it with a washcloth.

[SUMMARY: I'm twelve and I have a talking zit.]

I've also had a lot of health food in my life this week... and no caffeine. And no sweets. And no soda of any kind.

Only *one* Bobmas beer.

People who push detox diets or juice fasts or the like often say your skin may break out and you may have horrible digestive issues for a few days.

"That's the toxins escaping!"% they say, cheerfully.

Know what? All this attention to detail, all this unseemly purity, all aimed at the flattest stomach possible@ and I woke up this morning with serious premenstrual bloat.

I feel like someone inflated a raft in my pants. And not in a good way.

[SUMMARY: God is an iron.]

I redded my hair.

Oh, it's reddish all on its own,‡ but every year around the end of March, I look up and the stuff right by my head is the dull, darkish brown of winter, while the ends are the glittery, damaged gold of late summer.§

So I decide to indulge in a little semi-permanent dalliance with the middle ground, my natural colour. It brightens the winter and enrichens the summer and I feel like my old hair again.

I did this about a week ago.

Then with the impending date, I decided it wasn't enough. I thought to myself, "Self, if Spiced Tea, the light auburn you believe youself to be, is too light, perhaps you should try Cinaberry, the medium auburn brown."

So I did.

And when I look in the mirror, I see the flat charm of a redwood picnic bench. It's too dark. It's too red. It's too... one colour.

I tried so hard for just a little boost!

I striped a little around the roots and let it sit for a couple of minutes. Then I combed those puny little stripes down into the mangled meadow of the ends. Yet, I ended up with a solid, blocky red.

OK, nobody in the office has noticed.¶

None of the knitters noticed.#

But it's making me neurotic.††

If anybody sees me at Walgreens in the Clairol Natural Instincts aisle, knock me over the head and drag me out.

You don't want the responsibility of colour-on-colour-on-colour on your head.

Or mine.

[SUMMARY: I can't remember the last time I thought this much about my hair.]

AND... I'm in full-on "what will I wear?" mode.

Only it's a lot more panicky.

Like this: "WHAT will I *wear*?!!?!?"

I never realised lunch was a much harder date to dress for than dinner.

How much cleavage can you show before 4:00?

Two words that strike fear in the lumpy and bumpy: Day. Light.

I did get a sort of cute top last weekend‡‡:




But is it date-cute or wine-with-my-friends-cute?+

[SUMMARY: I'm not weird. This is a totally classic female dilemna.§§]

I shaved my legs Wednesday. For the first time in...

Yeti.

And I've been slathering my body in lotion every morning and vaseline every night. I am *soft*.

I have madly prepped, pre-boudoir.$

Yet, I may like this guy -- I *think* I like this guy -- well enough *not* to sleep with him.

I'm sure he'd be thrilled to know that.

Which brings me to the philosophic musing that should balance all the angst and whining:

A wise woman I know -- and to whom I attribute preternatural powers of reason -- had a date. She said they decided they liked each other enough to take it slow. I nodded emphatically at the screen,^ then thought, "Huh?"

In my callow age,¶¶ I held to the principle that I know within five minutes whether I *would* sleep with a guy, and within about a half-hour if I *should* sleep with a guy,## so why play all the games?

As I've matured, I've relegated my immediate and rampant sexuality to guys I don't see any future with.

Not even next week.

Not even breakfast tomorrow.

Oh, I won't sleep with anyone I don't like, or who doesn't make me laugh, but there's boyfriend material and there's guiltless romp material. And never the twain shall meet.

A guy I respect has to wait long enough to give us a chance to find we may never sleep together. Because if we sleep together too soon, we may not get a chance to find what we could have emotionally.

It's a weird little web of romance and sex that is so interdependent it becomes fragile. One little snap of one silken thread can set the whole thing to unravelling.

I guess that's what makes it so amazing if it stays together. And why we indulge in this reverse logic when it comes to dating and mating. And why we frantically spit-splice when it starts to come apart.†††

[SUMMARY: How deep, Mr. Wizard.]

Oh, hell. Now I have to decide whether to shave my legs again or not.

Holy fucking cats... when did I become such a girl?


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Which reminds me of a story: I was once telling my mother of a zit -- one of those deep, sore, rock-hard things that make you feel like you may have the mumps -- and she looked at it and said, "Ooooh... that looks angry."

"It's more than angry, Mom. It's downright pissed off."

%FOOTNOTE (percented): I'd like to point out all the handy exit routes to the toxins: you DON'T have to take my skin with you. Feel free to leave by my nose, quietly, as I sleep.

@FOOTNOTE (atted): I am shallow. I admit it. Did I mention date on Saturday afternoon?

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): I insist the DMV puts "light auburn" on my driver's license.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): It's possible I should get my hair cut more often, but that opens a whole can of worms I'll save for my next bad haircut.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): OK, it's mostly Hans, and... y'know... Hans boy, boy no notice hair, but other than that, it's mostly women.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Of course, it was kinda dark.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Stop laughing. I know I can't blame my hair.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Keeping in mind that I have more boobs and less collarbones than the model in the picture.

+FOOTNOTE (plussed. non-plussed. possibly pissed.): I would totally wear this with dark wash or black jeans. By the way.

§§FOOTNOTE (at least my hair is still curly...): Damnit! Dilemma. Maybe I can just charm him with bad spelling all day and he won't even notice my lack of fashion sense and patio furniture hair.

$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): Oh, yes I did!

^FOOTNOTE (careted): This was an email. I don't want you to think we were chatting over tea and I was nodding at the TiVi.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (now I'm seeing tears flowing from black eyes. Footnote symbology as Rorschach test): Up 'til last Tuesday.

##FOOTNOTE (pounding like the heart of an insecure woman): Though I've never, apparently, figured out how to tell if a guy is gay before I sleep with him. But that's another story for another day.

†††FOOTNOTE (left? no, right? no... left. no...): Lookie! Knitting reference! Still a knitblog!