March has come to a close, and as I reflect on the events of the past thirty days, I cannot deny that it has, overall, been a very good sort of month:
March was the month I decided to take my appearance into my own hands (whereas before I left it very much in the hands of Fate, that sneaky little whore who always buries the exact sweater I want to wear at the bottom of the dirty laundry basket).
This new resolution is a source of constant irritation to my big sister, who thinks my blog has become too shallow and gimmicky over the last month, and while I admit I could do with a few fewer gimmicks, I will also admit that I truly don’t believe it is shallow to want to look presentable. I just want to feel better—more confident and collected—and I really don’t see that as a bad thing. In fact, I think people could benefit from such a resolution; I know I have. After an entire month of making a steadily conscious effort to dress a little nicer, I have found that both my mood and energy—yes, energy!—have been boosted by this newfound hobby. No, I’m not going to go out and buy a new pair of Louboutins for $1,000. But yes, I will probably dedicate ten or twenty dollars of next month’s allowance to a couple new sweaters from the trusty secondhand store. Shallow? Perhaps. I guess it depends on your definition of the word. I like to think of it as life-affirming.
March was also the month I was forced to relinquish my delusions of youth and accept the fact that, indeed, I am a granny trapped in a twenty-three year-old’s body. In March, I took out my soft Toric contact lenses for the last time. Ever. In March, I drove back and forth to school for two weeks wearing my fugly, ill-fitting glasses while I waited for my eyes to build up the Chuck-Norris strength necessary to handle the trauma of hard (gas permeable) contact lenses. I won’t lie: that part of March was awful. But I can’t deny that it’s getting better.
March welcomed Saturday Steals, the first blogging brain child of mine I actually thought would be an instant success.
March quietly shushed the shame of Saturday Steals, (not) the first blogging brain child of mine to disappoint me with its paltry outcome.
March reminded me that, only days before, I had promised myself I wouldn’t quit so easily, and I decided to give Saturday Steals at least an entire year of Saturdays before I declare it an epic failure.
March reminded me that I owe someone a $7.00 Amazon gift card, so Hazardous Undertakings, email me to claim your meagre prize.
Yeah, March was eventful.
A few other things happened this past month: Poor Kyle got fired from his job (by his dad no less, which makes for awkward family dinners?).
No, not really; I jest.
In actuality, Poor Kyle decided his one true love in life is not, in fact, the new PS3 he traded in for his Xbox 360; it’s not computer programming; it’s not woodworking or chores around the house; it’s not even me.
It’s truck driving, and that’s final.
So he embarked on a grand new adventure, and in the meantime, I’m still going to school and trying to figure out the adventures of my own life. Which makes for some lonely nights, but just in case you’re a stalker thinking about breaking into my house and r@ping me, don’t bother: I’m horrible in bed. (I’m repressed.) (Come to think of it, maybe that’s why PK decided to get the long haul out of this joint? Food for thought…) Also, stalker, I have a vicious dog who will tear you to shreds—every last beating blood vessel in your disgusting, deranged little body—if you even so much as think about trying to get a piece of this. Just so you know. Creep.
It’s okay that PK’s gone, though, because to dampen the blow of being a single wife once again, my husband promised to buy me a new (to me) car. I would totally take a new (to me) car over a husband any day, even if my husband weren’t the kind of guy to choose a semi truck over me any day (which he is). New (to me) cars don’t ask me if I’ve seen any of their clean underwear lately; new cars don’t care if I fall a little behind in the laundry. They live to serve…to serve me. Power trip Road trip, anyone?
Also, in Poor Kyle’s absence, I’ve found myself with more time than ever to devote to my career. (Ha. Career. As if.) No, but for reals. I admit that for quite some time now I’ve been in a bit of a funky place—not funky like “Dang, girl, strut your stuff,” but funky like “Dang, poor girl is in a funk.” A funk-ish place. Not a total depression; not even really sad; just…stagnant. Static. Stale.
However, this month I’ve been encouraged to keep trudging away at making my dream job materialise. I’ve finally decided that it is in fact my dream job, and not just something I do when I should be doing something else. It’s my dream job, and if I can actually be one of those people who does what she loves and gets paid to do it and can do it from anywhere…well, that’d be surreal. Surreal in a good way. Surreal in the Best Parts of Alice in Wonderland kind of way—the delicious parts that get stuck in your head and stay there forever, like when the Cheshire Cat says that it doesn’t matter which way you go if it doesn’t matter where you’re trying to get, or when Alice declares that no she hasn’t lost her muchness—that kind of surreal.
And this month, more than any in a long time, maybe even ever, I’ve been tossed a shred of hope that I might just make it someday.
I will forever remember March 2010 as the month the universe threw me a bone.