2004-02-12 - 10:14 p.m.

On the internal soundtrack: "I Want You (She's So Heavy)", Beatles

February 10

Work is still keeping me busy. The trouble with working hard is that my brain is not paying any attention to the little things I'm supposed to be recording in my journal. Ten years from now I'm not going to care about the specifics of what I was doing at work (the generalities, which I might care about, are in the resume I keep updated for proposals).

Um, well, I hate washing my hair, did I mention that? I'm lucky enough that I only need to wash it every other day, and sometimes can even stretch it to every third day. But I hate it. I will do chores to avoid washing my hair. It takes seven minutes to wash and condition it under the tub faucet; longer if I do it in the shower. My husband laughs at me and says, "That's nothing!" But with all the other things I have to do too -- flossing, brushing, washing my oily T-zone with one cleanser and my dry, probably rosacea'd cheeks with another (dermo appt is March 2) -- I am resentful of the time I spend on my hair. Even though I spend far less than many women I know. I hate grooming, period. If I didn't hate being dirty I'd be like a little kid, refusing to bathe.

Grumble, grumble.

February 12

I wrote this as a comment in a locked post in another journal and wanted to keep it for myself, too. I edited a bit, and I think it'll work without any context.

I saw moving out of my parents' house the day my life really began. Prior to that point, I was tied to my parents because I lived in their house and because of their financial support for college, and my life wasn't really all mine.

But once I moved out I was 100% responsible for myself and my life was truly my own. All my decisions were made because they were what *I* felt was best for me, not what somebody else thought. There was no more conflict -- my relationship with my parents became a real friendship. Independence and personal choice are so terribly important to me that I couldn't feel completely ME without them, I guess.

My fears of death (I went through a bad stage with that in my mid-20s) are related to the fact that I feel like I've only really been alive for about 10 years (I'm 32). It hasn't been long enough at ALL.

BTW, I know what you're talking about with some grownups being joyless, but I also know a lot of adults who have genuine joy in their lives. The thing is that they take joy in different things than I do, or did when I was younger. I had a discussion last night with friends about how to encourage their 11-year-old kid to do his homework, and it was a fascinating discussion and a very fulfilling one for me to have. When I was 18, I don't think I would've found it so interesting.

I noticed that my parents are having a fabulous time these days, and I don't know if they're more free without the drag of teenage children (talk about high stress) or if they've always been like that (quite likely) but I didn't realize it because the things that give them joy were things I didn't care about. Now that I have similar interests and concerns (gardening, for one), I see how much sheer enjoyment my mother gets every day just walking out to pick lettuce she grew for her salad. And I understand why.

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A bit more rambling on the topic of grown-up joy:

People my age say "I know I'm getting old because I'm getting excited about stuff like dishwashers!!" This is, indeed, a sign of "getting old" in the sense that younger people aren't interested in it. But if I'm any example, the excitement over the dishwasher is very REAL excitement, the same kind of excitement I had as a little kid over getting a new toy or book I really wanted. Just because the excitement is over something as mundane as a dishwasher doesn't make the excitement any less genuine.

Frankly, a dishwasher that makes no noise and doesn't require pre-rinsing is pretty exciting, dammit. I'm gonna have one of those someday.

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