Category: Megalomania

Black Cats and Broken Mirrors

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I am a superstitious person.

Now, I have no problem with black cats (I’ve owned several). The worst part about a broken mirror is the clean-up (and being out a mirror). I’ll walk under a ladder, unless someone is on it, but that’s less superstition and more I don’t want them to drop anything on me. I’ve opened umbrellas in the house without any major repercussions.

But I am still a superstitious person.

I’ve got my own system of weird beliefs that aren’t grounded in reality.

For example, I’ve got a firm belief that if I put my shoes on during a tornado warning, a tornado won’t hit my house. I’m convinced that a tornado will only hit my house if I have to climb out of the rubble barefoot.

There’s no logical basis for this thought other than I don’t want to be barefoot if a tornado hits my house and therefore, I put my shoes on when the siren goes off and because a tornado has never hit my house when I’ve had my shoes on (a tornado had never hit my house, period), it stands to reason that putting on my shoes wards off tornadoes.

Thought it’s a very logical progression to get to that last point, there’s no basis in reality for it, but I still put my shoes on when the siren sounds, no matter what time it is, no matter how I’m dressed. The need for a bra during a tornado is somewhat less than the need for shoes.

I’m not exactly sure how this sort of thinking developed for me. And since I like to think of myself as a logical person, it’s kind of funny that I would fall into this sort of thought process. But I suppose it can happen to anyone. Even the most reasonable people have quirks to their thinking.

Lots of people have lucky numbers and numbers to avoid. Most people think of 7 as lucky and 13 as unlucky. My lucky number is 3 and any multiple of 3. I don’t like 5 and I’m wary of 8.

I don’t have to knock wood, but I do have to close my calendars on the last day of the month (so the old month’s mojo doesn’t bleed into the new month).

For the most part, these superstitions don’t affect my functioning. They’re so particular that they don’t often come up. Unless I point them out, most people don’t even know that I have them. And I’m sure that the same could be said for the people in my life, too. I’m sure that it’s not just chain letters that they’re superstitious about.

Sometimes I wonder about the silliness of my superstitions. Then I realize it could be worse.

I could be wearing the same underwear to preserve a winning streak.

Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Pregnant Lady?

~ Kiki Writes ~ 1 Comment

As a human being, I have my quirks and my fears and my quirky fears. I chose to forego any of the typical phobias like bugs and snakes and decided to jazz up some of the more traditional fears like heights and death. I can only guess at the sources of some of these out of the ordinary hang-ups. Friends and family have no desire to understand them. They just filed them in the “weird” column of my personality and moved on.

So, what scares me?

Mascots- Okay, lots of people have this one. I’m definitely not alone. And it’s more of a love-hate thing with them. I think mascots can be a lot of fun and very funny. I just don’t want them close to me. I don’t want them coming at me. I don’t want them interacting with me. Mascots are fine…over there.

The big headed mascots really freak me out. The bobbleheads at Chase Field, the Presidents at Nationals Park, Rosie Red at Great American Ballpark. I don’t even like seeing them on TV. I don’t think I could handle them so well in person. There’d be a lot of walking in the opposite direction.

This is a late blooming fear, as I don’t remember ever having a problem with mascots before my twenties. Even at DragonCon, people in certain mascot-like costumes caused me concern. The Pennywise Clown, complete with balloons and evil grin, in the elevator, however, did not.

Pregnant Women- I think this is a product of seeing Aliens at a young age. While I fully understand and recognize how amazing it is that you can grow a living creature inside of your body, you’re growing a living creature inside of your body and it’s going to want to come out. I see a heavily pregnant woman and I think it’s just a chestburster incident waiting to happen. And no, I don’t want to feel the baby kick because I don’t want to be too close when it decides it’s done incubating and claws it’s way through your belly button.

Okay, that’s ridiculous and I know it and considering the fact that people close to me have been bearing children pretty regularly for the past ten years, I’ve had lots of opportunities to plaster a smile on my face and pretend not to be creeped out by the fact that there’s something MOVING in my friend’s gut.

I imagine that should I ever get pregnant, I’ll spend the entire time pretty skeeved out and possibly flapping my hands like a girly-girl that’s just seen a spider every time the kid moves.

Wait. Why would I even consider getting pregnant if I’m scared of pregnant women? Hold that thought. I’ll come back to it.

Falling- I don’t mind heights. I don’t mind being in high places, looking out over the land, taking in the view. I don’t mind working on roofs or climbing ladders. I love ferris wheels and the Power Dive at Great America. I have no trouble with heights.

It’s the falling from heights that bothers me. I don’t get too close to the railing. I don’t like other people to get too close to the railing. We were sitting over the bullpen in Kansas City and this guy carrying his baby boy stood next to us and the whole time I was in a highly tense state because his baby was too close to the edge. Logically, I know that Daddy isn’t going to drop the baby, but on the other hand I have this overwhelming desire to not risk it and please step back, sir, you are making me nervous.

And it’s not just high places that this bothers me. It’s stairs, too. I am quite careful going up and down stairs because I’m terrified of falling down them. I think the last time I actually fell down a flight of stairs I was probably three or four and I wasn’t hurt. But be sure that if there’s a bannister, I’m hanging on.

Corpses- Yeah, I don’t like dead people (most people don’t). I’m not big on dead things in general, but I really have a problem with dead people. This means that I don’t do funerals. Period. End of story. Why? There are dead people there. I find it really disconcerting that there is a corpse laid out like a Thanksgiving centerpiece in the room.

I realize that this provides comfort to most people (for some odd reason), but it does nothing for me. As far as I’m concerned, the deceased person in question is already gone; their spirit or soul or what have you has left their body and all that’s left is a hunk of spoiling meat. And I don’t want to be in a room with it.

This goes for ashes, too. My grandparents both chose cremation and no funerals, which I thougth was great, but so long as Dad had their ashes in the jeep, I wouldn’t get in it. There are dead people in there. Nope. (Grandma and Papa have since been moved to Dad’s closet and I have no desire to get in there any time soon.)

Surprisingly, most of my family are very understanding about my funeral-aversion. They understand my problem with being in a room with a corpse and I’ve been given a free-pass for most funerals. Other people don’t understand it and think I’m just a selfish, uncaring bitch. And that’s fine. So long as I’m not in a room with a corpse, you can think of me what you like.

Fears are considered a sign of weakness in my family and I do my best to face them.

I spent most of the Cornbelters season getting used to Corny so I could get within two feet of him when I took my nieces to get his autograph (I still used the children as a shield). I like Corny. And he seems to respect my need for extra mascot personal space and I appreciate that.

I challenged my fear of falling by going on the Mine Drop ride at Great America (it takes you up a gazillion stories and then drops you straight down). Sure, I screamed all the way down, was shaking so hard I couldn’t get my harness off, and would never do it again, but I did it once and that’s what counts.

Same with getting pregnant. If the opportunity to have children arises, I would get pregnant despite that fear just to say I did it. Nine months is a lot longer than thirty seconds, but the reward would be greater for all of the time I’d put in.

The dead people thing I’m kind of stuck with. That’s going to be a tough one to get around. I’ve basically made a deal with myself that certain funerals I have to attend. I will probably sit as close the back as I can and do my best not to be anywhere near the casket, but I will go.

That’s right. If you’re really special, I’ll go to your funeral.

It’s Hip to Be Square

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I’ve never been a cool kid. I’m sure you’re shocked by this revelation, but it’s true. Growing up, I lacked all of the necessary skills to be cool. I was too smart, too weird, too awkward, too shy. There was nothing about me that would have made me popular even in a one room school house with only two students. It was just not in my genetic make-up.

To take it a step further, I couldn’t even try to be cool. To this day, my sister has to keep me up-to-date on slang and explain the correct context in which it is to be used. In effect, my much hipper younger sister has to translate cool for me because I do not speak it. I march to the beat of my own drummer and that drummer tends to play the oldies.

Going through school as not very popular (not be confused with not having any friends, because I did and they were very good ones and I’m glad I spent my time with them), it baffles me now at the age of thirty bonus year that I would be thought of as cool and be popular, but I am, at least in a two very specific sections of the population.

The first section is Walmart. To pinpoint it even further, the people I worked with at my tiny Walmart here in town. Walking into that store is the closest I’ll ever get to being a rock star.

Okay, so this is mostly because I’ve worked there twice and racked up a few years and I got along really well with most of my co-workers. We chitchat and play catch-up. If I want to get out of there in under two hours, I have to time my visits very precisely.

However, I am something of a legend in that Walmart. I didn’t realize it until I went to work there the second time when I had associates that I’d never even met before know who I was. I guess that happens when you dye your hair mutliple colors, have fun at work (while busting your ass to do your job well), and aren’t afraid to get an attitude with the customers when necessary.

My legend, I’m told, continues on.

The other small contingent that thinks I’m cool are people younger than me. People my own age and people older than me look at me as something of a failure as I never finished college, never got married, never had kids, and live with my dad and a roommate while insisting that I can make some sort of career as a writer while periodically holding day jobs.

Younger people, however, seem to ignore all of that status stuff and instead hone in on the fact that I’m a quick wit that can give objective, practical advice when necessary. In some ways, I’m totally on their level. In other ways, I’m 100 years wiser. It’s an attractive blend, or so I’m led to believe. They think I’m cool.

I never expected that years after high school I would find popularity and some sort of cool factor, however minute and unimportant in the grand scheme that it might be.

Don’t worry. I won’t let it go to my head.

Avoiding the Limelight

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Teenagers crave attention. With the benefit of a few years of distance, I can see that clearly. Everything that happens to two them is either the best, but usually the worst thing ever. Every notable quality about them is better than any of your notable qualities. Every incident, word, interaction, look, and choice is magnified to the extreme, all for the sake of LOOK AT ME!

Now, I’m not just picking on the teenagers I know now. I was just as guilty of all of those things when I was their age and so were my friends. I have more than one memory of me acting in such a way that just makes me cringe now. If my parents had been paying better attention, I wouldn’t have blamed them for locking me in a closet for being annoying.

However, I was really BAD at getting attention. It usually backfired or was in some way ineffective. Mostly, I was out attention-got by someone else that was better at getting attention. In competitions like that, I’m woefully unskilled to compete.

Some people grow out of this ultimate need for attention. Some don’t. Some just evolve their attention getting methods.

I went in the opposite direction.

Once I realized that I wasn’t good at getting attention by any means, I gave up on trying to get it. And when those around me continued to get attention and tried to get attention, it really turned me off to trying to get it.

You know those people that have to one-up you? The ones whose lives are always worse/better than yours depending on the situtation? Yeah. I’ve been acquainted with too many attention-getters like that. It’s turned me off to sharing bits and pieces of my life because I’m tired of being used as a stepping stone to conversation stardom. I’m tired of being reminded about how their lives are so much MORE than mine.

So, I don’t share. Sometimes, I’d like to, but I think better of it and keep it myself. In the end, I have secrets.

I don’t tell people about my writing projects. There are people I haven’t told about my jewelry making. No one at the former day job new the actual extent of my new gig. I’ve gotten very comfortable with operating in the shadows and being overlooked.

But, it’s hurting me as well. You can’t live your whole life unseen (unless you’re some sort of James Bond spy, and I know I’m not cool enough for that life). I’ve gone so far the other way when it comes to seeking attention that to get attention is disconcerting. I get almost paranoid about it. Why are they looking at me? What do they want? Why does what I do matter to them?

It also doesn’t help because I’m at a point in my life when I need attention. I need the attention to create and grow a fanbase. I need the attention to sell books, sell jewelry, sell myself.

Going so long avoiding attention, I’m struggling trying to figure out ways to acquire that kind of attention.

It’s like wearing make-up. If you go for an extended period of time not wearing make-up and then you put it on, you think you look like a painted doll, even if you don’t. If you go for a period of time not trying to get attention, then you start trying, you think you’re being an annoying in a “hey, look at me!” kind of way.

As nice as it is in the darkened wings of the stage, I need to work my way back towards the limelight, even if I can only stand its glare for short periods of time.

Best Laid Plans

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I’m not very good at making plans. The fact that I’ve been improvising my life since I graduated high school aside, even planning on the smaller scale is a skill I lack.

Oh, I like to plan some things out, like business and budget stuff, but I have a way of sabotaging myself. For example, this jewelry side business. I got it all in my head how I was going to set up my own store sight and build up my inventory and promote it with Moo cards. I went through with that plan. I bought the webhosting, set up the front page to the site, got the Moo cards.

And then I realized that I’d be better off setting myself up on Etsy because it’d be easier to promote and control my inventory since I was going to be short on cash for materials until I could really get going.

So I’ve spent the past couple of days canceling my webhosting account, getting my shop set up on Etsy, and redoing the Moo cards with white out and a pen to correct the store’s url. Time that could have been better spent, for sure.

I’m really good at this sort of thing. Getting everything laid out, drawing up what I think is a great plan, beginning to execute it, and then realizing that I should be doing it another way.

That’s if I make a plan at all. When it comes to making money or budgeting money, I’m all about a plan. When it comes to spending money, like with a trip, I have no plan.

Oh, I have a loose idea of what I want to do and what I need to do, but when it comes to drawing up those solid diagrams I make with other things, they’re lacking when I come to planning a trip. It’s why I usually try to go with someone else. Not just for the company, but because the person I go with is usually better on the planning. They’re better at booking hotels, planning routes, getting airline tickets, knowning what ot pack, that sort of thing.

I’m going it alone to Wrigley next week. Not such a big deal because it’s nothing more than a day trip. But the game is next Tuesday. I still haven’t bought my ticket. I still haven’t plotted the route I need to take to drive up there (though riding up just last month, I’ve got a pretty good idea how I need to go). I’m just now looking into how much gas money I’ll need. These things will get done, but I bet I’m up late the night before printing out directions and my last stop out of town will be the ATM because I’ll remember that I’ll need money to eat.

Now, if someone were going with me, I’d be totally prepared to go days in advance. The tickets would have been purchased weeks ago (and I would have been the one to do it, too), the directions would have been obtained (my co-pilot probably would have done it), and the cash would be sitting in my Boob Job Fund jar waiting for me.

It’s amazing how my trip planning skills get better when I’m flying as part of a flock instead of solo.

They say make plans and God laughs. Apparently, I was born with the same philosophy.

The Worth of a Dollar

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I’m not going to lie, money is important to me. The making of it, the having of it, the spending of it. I’m not too interested in other’s people money. I’m too busy thinking about my own. Or the lack thereof.

Money plays a big factor in my self-esteem. I’m worth not just what’s in the bank, but what I’m bringing in and how I’m paying the bills. My ego lives and dies by my checkbook.

It’s a pretty messed up measure of worth, I know. Never mind how the stock market keeps gyrating or the fluxuating price of gold; what’s it say on my pay stub?

Now one would think that since I pin so much of my worth on my money that I’d have gone through college and got myself a good paying job and ergo I would be in the position to think my shit don’t stink. Have we discussed that I like to do everything the hard way? Yeah, that was clearly not the case.

In terms of my self-esteem, it’s lunacy that I’m quitting a regular paycheck to go back to scratching out what I can. On the one hand, the struggle will make me happier because I’ll be doing what I want to do.  On the other hand, my self-esteem is looking to take a severe hit because the money is not going to be steady and I’ll be struggling to make ends meet once again.

Because of my money issues, I’m very good with my money. I’m good at going without. I’m good at saving. I’m good at paying the bills first. I’m good at making sure the obligations are taken care of before I do something fun, and even then I usually defer to responsibility and save my money instead of spend it. My dad likes to joke about how tight I am. I don’t know why he thinks it’s so funny. He’s the one that made me that way.

My dad grew up poor. Real poor. Poorer than I grew up, for sure. My dad harbors a bitterness that my mother (who did not grow up poor) gave us things when we were kids. Never mind that a lot of our toys and clothes were second-hand, it was just the fact that we had them. That my mom spent money to give them to us. Now, my mom did run us up in quite a bit of debt with her shopping, but still, my sister and I were far from spoiled in the material sense. Money is a big deal with my dad. He never has enough and he doesn’t want to spend it. Ask him. He’s always broke.

When I moved in with him during my sophomore year, I didn’t ask him for anything. I wouldn’t even ask him for lunch money. I lived off of what I had in my savings account from babysitting and working in my mom’s daycare. It wasn’t until I’d lived with him for a while that it occured to him that he didn’t know where I was getting my lunch money. Then he started giving it to me.

My sister had to have her appendix out when we were in high school. All I can remember from that is my dad bitching about the doctor’s bill. So when I fractured my ankle before senior year, I refused to go to the hospital. I didn’t want to listen to Dad bitch about how much I cost him (yes, we had insurance, but there’s that whole deductable thing and then what insurance won’t cover, and all that jazz). Over a decade later, I’m paying for not having my ankle properly set.

There’s no worse feeling than asking my dad for money. The disgust is palpable. So I do everything in my power to have my own. To make my own.

I’m hard enough on myself. I don’t need him to add to it.

The true test of this next venture is to make enough money to pay my bills. I pay my bills, the self-esteem stays happy and my dad continues to see me as legitimate person dwelling in his house. It’s a win-win.

Sure. No pressure.

Times, They Are A-Changin’

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

The reason why Monday Megalomania is posting so late (if you notice, it usually posts early in the morning) is because I had to put my notice in at my day job first.

Yeah, you read that right. I’m quitting my day job.

There are a lot of contributing factors, the biggest two being I’ve got another opportunity that I think will work out better for me and I’m not cut out for cube life.

The new opportunity is coming from my friend DaLette. I admit that I’ve been looking for an out from the day job for a few months. The steady money is nice, but I resented how little time and energy it left me to write. I initially thought to find a new day job, something part time, possibly in retail. But pickens have not improved since the last time I was looking for a day job. I was feeling stuck and pretty miserable.

However, DaLette was looking into starting her own business and after some research decided she’d keep doing things the way she’d been doing as a freelance landscaper/decorator, wedding officiator, and self-published author. One hell of a mixed bag, right? But it works for her and that’s what she told me. If I wanted to get out, I needed to make my own day job and freelance my strengths.

It took a few weeks for me to understand exactly what she was getting at. My gig is writing and I haven’t been too successful at making money at it. I couldn’t really think of anything else I had a shot at doing that would pay my bills and my bills need to be paid. Remember I made a mess of my finances pursuing this writing dream without a regular income and I’ve yet to really recover.

But the seed was planted in my head and I started looking in my life for things I could do to freelance, so to speak. It took a little time, but it finally hit me. One thing I’ve always loved to do and always been pretty good at doing is making jewelry. Bracelets have always been my specialty, but I’ve done necklaces, too. It occured to me that between friends, relatives, and the Internet, I could make a little money doing it.

With this thought in my head, I decided why should I wait to have someone publish my short stories? Why can’t I just publish my own? If I’m going to be selling my goods, I should sell the goods I really want to be selling, right? Right (I’ll be doing a post about self-publishing on Wednesday).

Now, I’m a very money-minded person (that’s a post for another Monday, too). I have to crunch numbers in order to look at the financial reality of what I’m getting into and I admit, I wasn’t thrilled with what I looked at initially. But after some thought, I figured at the very least it would get me some extra cash.

I started moving forward with these new projects, plotting how to use word of mouth and the Internet to my advantage. I like having a plan. It gives me goals. It gives me something to work toward. It makes me feel like I have some control.

And then DaLette stopped by.

Her freelancing has been going well. So well, in fact, that she needs some help. I offered to be that help before. I can be that help now. I’m going to be that help.

I figure that between my ventures and the work DaLette can offer me, I can keep my head above water in terms of paying the bills and have time to get back to seriously working on writing. It’s going to be tough and it’s going to be work, but it’s going to be work at something I WANT to do and I LIKE to do.

Yeah, that brings me to the second factor. I didn’t really like my job. Maybe about a month into the gig I realized that I didn’t like it, but couldn’t figure out why. There was no reason that I could put my finger on other than I’d rather have been writing. However, I felt that even though I didn’t like it, I could tough it out for a while for the sake of the paycheck. I didn’t like it, but it wasn’t a bad job.

In the past few months, that’s changed. The job has changed. I’m not happy with the change and I’m not happy with some other things that I won’t get into out of respect for the people that still work there. I’ve got some hang-ups with the way some things are done and some things are handled and there’s no reason for me to hang around in that environment and make things worse.

So, I’m getting out. After Labor Day, I will be free.

And back to working 7 days a week for whatever scratch I can make.

Happy Birthday, Boobies!

~ Kiki Writes ~ 4 Comments

Okay, today is not the day; it was the 13th (and I had to look it up because I couldn’t remember it, though I knew it was in August). And it’s not really a birthday, but an anniversary. But still, it’s cause for me to celebrate.

Nine years ago on August 13th, I had breast reduction surgery.

Why is this such a big deal? Allow me to illustrate. With words, of course.

Just like other areas of my life, I was a late bloomer when it came to getting boobs. It really didn’t start to happen much until I was in 8th grade. And once it started happening, it didn’t stop. By the time I was a senior in high school, a 44DDD, the largest bra I could find in the stores, was too small.

I begged my dad for a breast reduction because I was on his insurance at the time and it would cover the surgery. My dad said no. He told me to lose weight. I did. I lost 20 pounds. None of it came off of my chest. But when I gained it back, that’s where it went. He still refused. He didn’t understand how miserable it was.

It wasn’t until after high school that he finally got it. He came home one hot summer day, complaining about how hot his bullet proof vest made him and how it was getting worse every year. I looked at my dad and quite unsympathetically said, “At least you get to take yours off. I’ve got mine 24/7/365.”

I guess it’s hard for people to understand the concept of heat rash all year round. It’s hard for them to understand how uncomfortable a too-small, ill-fitting bra is. It’s hard for them to understand the WEIGHT.

People are used to seeing those fake boobs that stand up on their own and seem weightless. I don’t know if they are lighter, but I know real boobs aren’t. It’s fat and mammory glands and tissue. It’s heavy. Only in a weightless environment would my breasts be perky. Rocking what should have been an H or I cup (yes, they make those), I was that exaggerated droopy breast joke you see on those comical birthday cards in Spencer’s. When I took my bra off, I could sit down and my breasts would touch the tops of my thighs. That’s how big and how heavy they were.

Sexy, huh?

I had back trouble and spent most of my time hurting. I mentioned the heat rash. I also had trouble sleeping. It was hard to find a position that was comfortable because of all of that squishy weight on my chest, sliding around and getting in the way and smooshing me if I wasn’t smooshing them.

And then there was the toll it took on my self-esteem.

When I finally got the job that provided me with the insurance that would cover a breast reduction, I jumped at the chance. During the initial pre-surgery examination, the doctor said he would probably take off 15 pounds of tissue.

I’m going to repeat that. My breasts were large enough that the doctor felt taking off 15 pounds of tissue would still leave me with ample enough bosom for my build. That’s how big I was.

In the end, the doctor only took off 7 pounds of tissue total, but still for fun, get a couple of three pound weights and picture carrying that plus (because the doc did leave me some titties) on your chest. That was me.

I’m now at a much more comfortable size, rocking at a 38DD. Sure, it still sounds big, but the difference is a) the bra fits and b) this size works with my build so it’s not too big. And compared to what I was nine years ago, this is positively tiny.

I feel better. I don’t have nearly the back problems I used to have. The heat rash is gone. I’ve got one less problem sleeping. Have there been some drawbacks? Sure and I’ll discuss those at some point. But this is a celebration, so I’m sticking with the positive today.

Happy birthday, boobies. You deserve it.

Hairy Issues

~ Kiki Writes ~ 1 Comment

When it comes to vanity, I have it. I’m not going to lie. I can be vain about my appearance, but I admit to being vain in a very odd way.

For example, my hair. I’m quite vain about my hair and yet I have no issues with changing styles drastically. For example, several years ago, during my third go round at college, I was ready for a big change. I’d had my hair long for years, it was driving nuts, and I’d been trying to figure out what to do with it. It just so happened that at that time a group on campus was offering haircuts for charity. 10 bucks got you whatever cut you wanted and the money went to a cause.

I took that opportunity. When it was my turn, the stylist asked me if I wanted a trim and I told her no. I told her to do whatever she wanted. After a second’s hesitation, she did. She lopped off several inches and I ended up with a cute style that was about shoulder-length.

I kept up variations of that style for several years, but recently, I decided I wanted to go for something different, something a little shorter, a little edgier. The problem with a new style for me is always how the rogue wave in my hair is going to react to it. Usually it takes me a couple of days, but I can figure out how to rock it.

Unfortunately, the rogue wave doesn’t like the new style I got and I’m having trouble working it to the point that I can at least live with it. My first gut-reaction, possibly triggered by other stressors in my life, was to cut off all of my hair and go straight pixie with it. Just say screw it and go so short the rogue wave couldn’t have anything to wave.

While this sounds like a fanstastic, easy solution, expecially since I could probably pull off a pixie cut and it would definitely be lower maintenance than what I’m doing now just to get my hair from hideous to ugly, and despite how cavalier and daring I can be when it comes to my hair, I doubt I have the guts to do it.

Why?

Because keeping some length on my hair makes me feel a little more girly.

Seem silly? It totally is, but follow me down on it anyone.

I’m not very girly. I have a very tough demeanor. I’m soft in fat rolls only. Not counting boobs and hips, there’s nothing very outwardly feminine about me. To me, having a pixie cut would just harden me up even more. I could pull it off, but it would make me even less approachable than I already am and I’m already pretty unapproachable (I know, you’d think a short, fat girl wouldn’t be intimidating, but I’ve been told over and over that there’s something about the way I carry myself that makes me seem just scary).

That’s not to say that I don’t think a pixie cut is a feminine hair style. Lots of women pull it off with their womanhood intact. I’m just saying that I am not one of those women. It would make me look like the ultimate ball buster and while I don’t mind my hardcore edge, I need something to soften it. I don’t have to be hardcore all the time and I shouldn’t look like I am.

So as much as I’d like to cut off all my hair and start all over, I won’t.

Thank goodness for my love of hats.

Keeping It Loose

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I, like most people, have an aversion to being trapped. I like to have options. I like to have choices. I like to have the freedom to make those choices.

It’s part of the reason why I didn’t move out as soon as I turned 18. If I’d have done that, then I’d be stuck in whatever job I had just so I could pay the bills. And considering the crap jobs I’ve had in my course of employment, it’s not like I’d be making enough to make ends meet and then have something to put aside for savings in the event that I needed to make a hasty exit from an unhappy job situation.

It’s why I’ve yet to buy a new car. Payments are like a ball and chain, both to the car and to the job providing the money for the payments. And it’s not like I change cars often. My current car I’ve had for ten years. But that payment obligation makes me uneasy.

Even blogging is a trap that I eye carefully. It took me awhile to commit to a blog and a theme and the schedule and the whole nine. And even when I finally decided to go through with it, I had to make sure I have myself enough room to change my mind and go in a different direction if I want to.

That’s the trick for me, I suppose. As much as I want safety and security, I’ve also got to have an escape route. I have to have room to jettison if I feel the need. I have to have the opportunity to be able to do at least some things on my own terms.

I’ve been struggling with that for the past couple of years. It feels like I’ve worked myself into trap after trap after trap. Every escape plan just leads to more trouble. There’s nothing more frustrating to me than to be working so hard to get out of a jam only to seem like I’m getting deeper in it. Like a fly thrashing in a spiderweb or a hapless adventurer flailing in quicksand, whatever I do I’m just making it worse.

I’m at my best when I’m keeping it loose and unfortunately, I’m  not in the position to be loose. Due to my choices I’m exactly where I don’t want to be. I’m trapped.

Now is the time for me to stop flailing. Now is the time for me to stop struggling. I need to be still. I need to assess my situation. I need to come up with a new escape plan. And then another one. And then another. I need to make a few options.

Now more than ever I need to find a way to get loose.

And then I need to stay that way.