Tuesday, August 12, 2008

17 Days

It's things like this that make me doubt the year on my birth certificate.  Yes.  I dyed my hair pink.  It's not the first time.  This time, though, it looks a bit like Neopolitan ice cream.  And I love it.  If that's not the coolest ponytail ever, I don't know what is.

A few posts back, I was talking about my identity crisis, and this picture illustrates exactly why.  Come on - you saw those pictures...none of them have pink hair evident, or multiple ear piercings or a tattoo or a belly button ring and I have, or have had, all of those things.  The belly button ring went the way of pregnancies with 9 pound babies, unfortunately, but I live in hope of the day I will get it back.  I'm not a dork.  I'M NOT A DORK.  Except when I am.

Here's the thing.  Sometimes I am a dork, on the inside.  I'm unsure of myself and feel like an idiot when I talk to other people and I still feel like I'm going to trip over my feet when I walk -  the way I did when I was a gangly teen with REALLY large feet.  I still feel the same as the girl with the bad mullet or the really bad perm or the countless horrifyingly bad haircuts.  I still feel like the girl who was told, by the first boy I ever kissed, that I looked better in the dark.  (Yes.  Ouch.  Junior High - I've blocked most of the memories)

And then, sometimes, on really good days, I feel like the ultra-cool punk princess I want to be.  I tell stories and people laugh, I play the guitar and people sing along and enjoy it, even when I miss a chord or two.  I paint something and it really is awesome.  I dye my hair pink and brown and blonde and people stop me in Target to tell me how cool it is.  I like those days.  Stellar days.  Punk rock days.

They are interwoven, the dork and the punk.  Like a double helix of DNA - one side dork, one side punk - curling around each other until one doesn't function without the other.  I'm not sure what exactly that makes me.  Either a donk or a pork, maybe.  Ew.  Maybe not.  (podunk?)

How about a woman who still feels like a girl.  Maybe a woman who can't really fathom the time and space that have separated her from the 15 or 20 or 25 year old that she once was.  Or perhaps just a woman who has lived fully these first 40 years, learned more than she ever thought possible, and plans to continue that trend through the next 40 years and more.  

Somehow, I don't mind the idea of aging so much that way.