I didn’t wear makeup to go to my car; Stories of Adulthood

One of the reasons I hate living in an apartment is that as soon as you walk out of your nice, cozy, PRIVATE home, you’re in PUBLIC. The door is the only buffer. Contrast that to a house, where you have this nice buffer zone of a garage and a yard, and a street, more or less. Unless you live in a bizzaro place, you don’t have people outside your house to see you should you need to get something you left in your car or take out the trash or whatever.

Not so in an apartment. Now, used to be I’d worry about my presentation all the damn time. I’d put makeup on if I knew I was getting food delivered, and put on real clothes instead of sweat pants, and generally look like I hadn’t rolled out of bed. Because, after all, everyone CARES so MUCH what I LOOK LIKE.

The nice thing about getting older (and wiser… *sips coffee*) is that you begin to care less and less about what other people think. Taking a leaf from Sarah Knight and her F*cks Budget, I’ve realized that I want to spend my F*cks wisely and less liberally. And giving a F*ck about what I look like just isn’t as high a priority as, say, writing.

And let’s be clear, not putting on makeup is a big deal, when you’ve worn it every day since you were sixteen and then had a real bad flare up of adult acne when you were in Taiwan and now have the scars and shame to prove it. So makeup = armor = me being okay. But not anymore.

The other day, I’d left something in my car, to get back to the title story, and my car was parked a level above me in the parking garage. I did not put on makeup to go get the stuff. I did put on pants, because decency, but wore slippers and didn’t brush my hair, either. Yes, I was one of those people. Pretty soon I’ll be wearing pjs to Walmart. No, I won’t. It was a step in the self-love department, not the giving-up-self-hood department.

I even saw someone coming down the staircase, and they said hi. Not, oh god how could you show that face to the world, but hi. How nice. *snark intensifies*

Being an adult sucks on a lot of levels, but today it sucked a little less as I accepted myself for myself a little more. Thanks, self.

I always eat alone; Stories of Adulthood

Correct me if I’m wrong, but if you’re single, roommate or no, you probably eat alone the majority of the time.

I do. And have, for nearly the past decade. Except on dates, the few occasions I eat with my brother while we watch Youtube, and the rare all-family dinner, I eat alone. I eat breakfast in the car on the way to work on in front of my computer. I eat lunch either in my car during the work day or also in front of my computer. I eat dinner…the same way. See above.

I never really thought about it, to be honest. I mean, food’s food, right?

Then I went to Korea, where food and community and bonding are tightly twisted and knotted together, leading to taboos for eating alone. There’s a whole Korean drama about a woman who finds an eating pal because she loves to eat and can’t eat in restaurants alone. I mean, we don’t really do that in America, either, but it wouldn’t be that big of a deal.

I was thinking about while eating a salad a few days ago, because it’s not easy to eat a salad delicately. Unless you take the trouble to cut up all your lettuce into easy-to-fit-on-fork pieces, you’re stabbing some big leafy bits that inevitably end up depositing a nice rim of dressing around your mouth on the way in. It’s irritating, but when you eat alone, who cares?

So then I thought, whew, it’s a good thing I’m not on a date, because then I’d have to spend some brainpower to make sure I wasn’t being Ralphie’s kid brother Randy on A Christmas Story. “Show me how the piggy eats,” indeed.

Maybe no one else has this issue. Maybe most other people learn to eat nicely when they’re young and it just takes hold so they never have to think about it again, like holding your pencil the right way. So they don’t have to think in their cars about how much thought they’ll have to put in on dates. Maybe. Or maybe most people are like me, slobs and messy when they’re alone and have time to fix their makeup before going back in to work, and overly careful on dates and in public because eating cleanly isn’t a habit.

Or…just maybe, I’m overthinking this. Well, that’s what being an adult means, right? Overthinking, worrying about dates, and being alone in cars during lunch to get away from work. Yeah, nailing this thing.

Is there anything you do that makes you wonder if you’re the only one who does it?

New Year, New Series

Blogging has always been a form of experimentation for me. There was my stint with doing the journal excerpts, the brief period where I posted poetry, and the general dumping of my life into the internet and seeing what happens. I tried to make a series out of that, with the Hello, I’m…Discovery series, the Game Master series, and so on, and now I’d like to add one more.

The Stories of Adulthood series. Really, it will be just another way for me to clarify my intentions with posts instead of rambling on and on (like this one does).

Blogging, to me, feels like community. I like hearing about other people’s lives, and I think they like hearing about mine, so with this new series, let’s all laugh at ourselves and share ridiculous stories about being an adult, eh?

Here we go.