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.