We should all be teenagers.

I question the pomposity of anyone thinking that anyone would be interested in reading anything that anyone thinks about, whereas all teenagers think that everyone wants to read everything they think about. I believe that is the reason I'm having difficulty with this blog. Heck, I am so used to subjugating my own needs that I barely care what my own thoughts are! White Christian women are, perhaps, the most repressed people in our society. The juiciest, most lush piece of steer meat on the serving dish? Oh, automatically it goes to someone else. The last piece of Trident in the pack? The ones for whom we do laundry? The reason we get up everyday? In my case I assure you, it's not so I can look at my sunshiney face in the mirror and seek out what exotic new adventure life in suburbia has in store for me.

My hair is now lighter than it was when I was growing up (as opposed to the never ending fight to discontinue 'growing out' which happens beyond the age of 35 or so). The reason? I got tired of counting how many new grey hairs sprouted overnight. I questioned my dear husband last night whether or not he thinks other mothers are as I -- goofy, teasing, giggling or outright guffawing with my kids -- or are they more stoic and self-possessed. He assured me that other mothers are probably as silly as I. I'm not convinced that he's right. Driving past cars or people watching in stores, I see frowns and scowls, not smiles and laughter. If the world laughed more, I think there'd be less drug usage and fewer bad-parent accusations. It's a shame there are no dye-jobs to shield peoples' dour personas.

I thought I'd never dye my hair. I'd be the type to shrug off the effects of aging. And now? I'm glad it's my hair that's more worrisome than my outlook. Though the hair defies my youthful leanings, the personality remains intact. That would've made the teenage Crystal quite proud.

Oh, you STUD!

People with piercings intimidate me. From preteens with little gold hearts, to frat boys with one dangling cross, to ultra-chic chicks with drizzles of chains and hoops, to infant girls with diamond studs. It's as if they all successfully were initiated into a group where I was never welcome and had no place to seek entry to begin with. Sure, I got my ears pierced on one wild afternoon with my buddies at the mall, but it didn't last. Seems the young woman who punched throbbing holes into my tender lobes misfired her gun ... I had diagonal entries through my ears that ached and bled anytime I attempted to wear anything through them. I now find myself an outsider to the earring-wearin' crowd, gaping longfully at the jewelry counters sporting cute matched sets, dreaming of how my long neck and shoulder-length hair would be accented just right with something unique and sparkly.

It was not meant to be.

Recently, I had the luxury of checking out a nearby Day Spa. The dim lights, the New Age music featuring a waterfall and tinkling bells, the slightly heady aroma of patchouli ... allured me in a way nothing has since before my children were born. I asked for a flier of their prices, and over strolls a buxom lovely replete with low-cut blouse and numerous necklaces and bracelets ("the modern Madonna-wanna-be?" I ask myself). She handed me their flier, then asked me to pause while she busied herself writing something. I hesitated, bathing in the undisturbed peace of a carefree outing sans infant. Then the young lady handed me "her card" promising 10% off my first massage, provided by her own skilled hands. As I smiled and thanked her, she smiled back, eyes twinkling and mouth agape -- which is when I noticed the tongue stud. Visions of a tongue-studded seductress man-handling the bare landscape of my ne'er-before massaged skin, I almost tripped over myself heading out the door! I'll never return there again.

How do we women do it?

Was awake by 6am today, though my husband got up with the kids and I remained in bed. After dragging my sleepy carcass from the cocoon of warm sheets, I found three males, all in their pajamas, laying in various poses in the living room. The youngest jumped up to greet me. I managed to sip a few drops of coffee before making everyone's breakfast. I cleaned the table, then changed 2 diapers. My husband took a shower while I entertained the boys. My day had only just begun.

Cooking, cleaning, shopping, painting, laundry, and somehow trying to keep everyone happy, healthy, and laughing are all in my job description. My husband is laying on the couch, fatigued due to his long day, yet I keep going. How do we women do it?

The day begins with the usual aches that come from 38 yrs of living.

A stiff back, mildly painful knees, and a fatigue that simply won't disperse with a night's rest. *sigh* What will another 38 yrs bring?

My husband lies beside me, his breath deep and regular. I wonder what he dreams, this man who couldn't describe a single creative moment in his life at a recent job interview, yet who routinely surprises me with thoughtful acts and passionate opinions. I wonder about my sons: a 3 yr old with mild autism and a 1 yr old with an incredibly generous and jovial personality. I wonder about the girl I was ... the girl who thought she'd grow up to find herself living an incredibly dramatic lifestyle as a poet in France; the young lady who dreamed of travelling for most of her life; the woman who believed that good things happen to good people.