March.
Nary a hair (make that hairs) hath hastened my journey to self-accepted (and decidedly steadfast) singledom than these unsightly sprouts springing forth on my wild and wintered legs.
Was it the holistic hippy retreat, the brisk Canadian cold (first official day of spring and it’s snowing) or the “I’ll never move back to (small home town) and I’ll never live with my mother or I’ll never find a man—oh, my God—I’m in (small home town) living with my mother!” realization that left me despondently disinterested in grooming these gams (and other parts)?
I was so excited to get home. Home. To my friends and family and country (sort of) and … well, friends and family. What the hell happened?
*
I’d left the retreat and driven straight back to Canada, albeit via the winding, windy coast of Oregon and part of Washington. It’s a majestic drive, God’s playground with rugged west coast seas and trees trained by unrelenting storms; intermittent blue skies fading to glaring grays; and—finally—further north, heavy skies both foreboding and familiar with the endless mist keeping me company on this last leg of my journey.
Back from the land of the rich and famous and shameless and quirky and interesting and most definitely flaky where azure skies and sunshine are plentiful and yet—once single (again)—was a place that didn’t feel like home. But I still wrestle with that acknowledgment (sunshine and blue skies do wonders to influence the heart).
Somewhere along the solo road trip north, I’d reconciled the idea of ‘going home.’ Actually, it was potentially an automatic psychological coping mechanism; there was no choice, no legal way to stay any longer than my Visitor Visa had permitted, no time to give the interesting, flaky people of LA LA Land another chance. By the time I experienced that rainforested 101 North, I’d convinced myself: “I’m ready for Canada.”
Yes, trying to train my brain (trick it, more like), but when I roll into town with the rain, all my senses and synopses in my zenned out noodle are saying, “Nope. This no longer feels like home, either.” Perhaps it’s the ‘I’m living with my mother.’ Or the ‘In my small hometown.’ I self-avow to stay single until I can resubmit myself to—to where?? Elsewhere! Yes, that is good enough to go on for now.
We’re in my mom’s apartment in an area of town that gives my sister anxiety but which I really like (the area, not my sister’s stress.) I must I miss the shady characters of Venice Beach after dark. Her apartment is 1970s but has new carpets and two bedrooms. It’s cozy and right around the corner from my first elementary school and the home I lived in across the street from it. Maybe it’s this sentimental shadow dancing on my heart. (I drove by the other day and noticed the current owners had cut down the maple tree whose fallen leaves I’d trampled through as a [carefree] child.)
Whatever it is, I feel homeless. My house, most of my furniture and other possessions are gone. Not exactly the circumstances for courting a man (in my mind, anyway), which I’m not interested in, I remind myself. Nonetheless, I am now reading a book named Calling in the One: 7 Weeks to Finding Your True Love. I think I bought the book out of habit. I get to the chapter where it says clear out a space for ‘him.’ Umm, where, in my LMLotFM’s (Little Mexican Lady on the Floor Mom) storage room? I’m growing bean sprouts in there. Plus, I’m on a single mattress on the floor (by choice, not wanting to get too rooted.)
I’ve decided to read the book but skip the exercises at the end of each chapter. I figure I’ll go back and do those when I get back to California (?) where I’d really rather meet Mr. Perfect-For-Me. Reality check: I just left a Mr. Wrong-For-Me. I need a reprieve! So, I’m letting my leg hairs (and other) do their thing—plus I’m saving the earth by not buying razors or wax kits. (Oh yeah!)
I figure, screw it! It’s winter (pant season), and I’ve got ankle-length Lululemon’s (purchased before my new-earth-save-the-bees mantra) if I decide to hit the gym. (What else am I going to do?) Plus, my LA Russian aesthetician waxed off half my tan on my inner thighs in uneven streaks, so now I’ve got to wait until the next thirty layers of dermis naturally exfoliate off to same level of white-as-when-I-was-born tone.
And I’ve already decided I won’t be meeting Mr. Right-For-Me here. No way, no how. I’m not saying “never.” Every time I say that word, I end up with Botox in my face and living with my mom. (Whatever you say/feel with passion comes about—the universe doesn’t hear the “I DON’T want it” part, just the “IT” part. Be warned, and be careful.) But let’s rephrase the statement just to be safe … If/When I meet Mr. Right-For-Me, it will be in Cali or Bali or—for crying out loud—London even! (Okay, maybe not London: a lot of gray skies and grayer teeth. Ick.)
Again, this rant is not to say I’m looking. No, indeed. But just in case God decides to answer my previous two years requests of Mr. Perfect, I’d kind of like Him to deliver a man who lives elsewhere and who fits perfectly into all areas of my life and makes me feel safe, encouraged and inspired (read: isn’t going to sidetrack me from my goal of going back to California this fall—more on that later).
And, yes, that previous italicized bit is programmed into my iPhone to remind me at 9:00pm PST of this manifest-my-request.
So here’s another (hair) thing: psychologically and not even unconsciously, I’m making myself not open for a new man by avoiding being feminine. (It could also be that I’m lazy.) Since I have an aversion to the hippy persuasion, I needn’t worry I’ll attract one of those (though, I admit, the wearing of deodorant is also becoming a sketchy habit.)
Most of the time I don’t bother with makeup and utter truth be told, I’ve taken to wearing (yes, I’m about to admit it) a knitted hat on greasy hair days (which is every other day).
I’ve given up Botox. It’s been eight months, and I’m overdue. And though the furrow in my forehead is ‘adding character’—ne, animation!—I couldn’t care less. No more teeth whitener (though, this coconut oil baking soda mixture seems to be keeping the London away. Humph, who knew?)
Part of this whole holistic approach is my new OCD obsession: Reduce, Reuse, Recycle! And also: Don’t Eat Animals, Get Way Healthy! (See “End Note.”) I went to California as a card-carrying Carnivore and came back a freakin’ Vegan (though I don’t like to categorize, and I’m not giving up any of my sinful, previously purchased animal-based products). But for now, I’m all about being natural. (No idea how long this will last, which is partly why I don’t preach or criticize—nothing worse than a hypocrite. Well, there probably is, but best not to judge anyway.)
The red shellacked nails I’d come home with, and grown out for over a month while trying to disguise them under poorly camouflaged lighter pink polish, finally pushed BFF, Leggy Blonde, over the edge. I was taking it too far. (Ms. Blonde is happy to know I relented and bought a bottle of earth-killing Acetone and picked the rest off! And yes, I do feel better, so thank you.) The fact I put on any nail polish proves I’m not a hippy, thank God. (Not that there’s anything wrong with hippy [sideways glance] but as mentioned, I don’t like to categorize. Yes, that’s it.)
The same day I was rebutted for bad polish, Leggy and I and another gal pal were in my local favourite coffee shop discussing grooming and the whole how-to-reduce-the-damn-hair thing and comparing length of arm hairs; mine are too long, our friend’s are barely there and Leggy’s are juuuuust right. Screw it, I’m done being a Furby, I’ll wax those! One day. (But not today.)
I’m sort of thinking length of arm hairs on a fair-haired femme might not be a singledom-ensurer, but we’ll put it on my How-To list, anyway. (If one wanted to be sure to turn them off, one could die them dark, but that’s trying too hard.)
And on yet another hair note … I’d been using this hair growth enhancer (on my head, not my legs—or arms) and have seen no difference that I could tell. To be accurate, I have seen no additional hair growing, though the normal new growth is still sprouting pubic style samples. I briefly consider getting a Brazilian Blowout (a straightening technique for your head hair, not a styling technique for your nether regions) but decide against it to save the earth—and my pocketbook. (Plus, I’m super stingy these days; liken it to a starving artist.)
Anyway, one night I awake and sit straight up in bed with a thought, “That shit is making my hair fall out!” Through squinty eyes, I search the Internet for “side effects of …” and, though it is rare, there are some cases where this has happened.
The next day in the shower, I start counting my fallen soldiers, sticking them to the shower walls and counting each day, “…89…” “…77…” “…83…” Supposedly, we lose up to one hundred hairs a day replacing them at the same rate. This doesn’t leave me much leeway for the rest of the day. I stop using the stuff and keep counting and within days, “…47…” “…36…” “…60…” Now, whether or not this is a direct result of the tonic or my brain tricking itself again, I don’t care, I’m saving my mane (and the earth). Note: This has nothing to do with being single. This has to do with: my hair is my thing!
In the meantime, I’ll save myself some grooming time and money and spend it on growing sprouts—on my legs and in my LMLotFM’s storage room. And as long as the sauna at the Rec Center isn’t co-ed and I’m not a lesbian (despite all appearances to the contrary), the mane on these legs and labes are going to stay all Billy Bush baby—or is it George Bush?—though I will refrain from the Brazilian Blowout ‘down there.’
Cheers to Singledom!
End Note: Anything I buy (which is only if I absolutely need it and which is mostly consumables) must be organic, vegan and sustainably produced, locally made whenever possible, or used. However! I’ll choose organic over local (subject to change—weighing transportation toxins vs. community/economy).
I figure, for now, I’m voting with my dollar and, although goods from farther away tarnish the earth with their dirty travel, my health trumps this planet. Plus it might encourage more local, organic growers/producers, which then can help this planet. Ha!
This means I am now washing my face with my own home brew concoction of Epsom salts and coconut oil. (I bought a 7lb vat, many uses apparently.) My skin is silky smooth and not a zit to be seen. Who knew?!
What have I (re)learned?
Mainstream folk don’t respect fundamentalists because there’s too much social gap and often both sides feel superior and feel the [real or perceived] superiority of the other side. No one buys shit or buys into shit from people they don’t like—not even ideas or ideals. Rant!
Homework:
If making the smallest effort contributes to a cleaner world for me (narcissist) and future generations, and me not de-hairing my arms/legs/vah-jay-jay also keeps me single (until I head south), then I’ve done my part (so to speak). Bam!
