Dye, dye, dye!

And so begins day 2 of my blogging life. I think I'm healthier already. Or maybe I just feel better today than yesterday because the baby slept decently and I actually got a few consecutive hours of sleep last night. Well, at any rate, I'm continuing on.

So, I dyed my hair this week. If you've seen me since I did it, you probably didn't even notice. It's maybe a tiny bit darker brown, but overall I think I did a pretty good job picking a color that matched my natural color. So, why did I spend an entire evening subjecting myself to a burning scalp and toxic fumes so that my hair would look the same? Because it doesn't look the same. I covered up all my gray. Yes, gray. I am 28 years old, and my hair is going gray. I blame it on the overwhelming number of males in my household. Anyway, I used to just casually pluck out the grays when I found them. I even chuckled a little about my kids making me old. But lately it isn't funny anymore. I'll pull out 15 grays and realize I haven't even made a dent in it. So, on a whim I bought a bottle of dye and, for only $9.99, restored a little self-confidence.

My husband jokingly said I look 10 years younger. Do you remember when that used to be funny? Just a few years ago it seemed absurd to want to look 10 years younger. When I was 25, I didn't dare wish to look 15. Pimples, blotchy-makeup, poorly styled hair? Pass. But all of a sudden the prospect of looking ten years younger sounds rather appealing. I wouldn't mind too terribly to look 18.

What is it about getting older that makes us so crazy? Someone once told me that he didn't mind getting older because it's better than the alternative. Morbid, but true. We're getting older--that's the way it is. Today I'm 28. Practically speaking, this means I entered this world 28 years ago. It's just a number. It's just a number. I'm working on making that my mantra. Who am I kidding? I've never been very good at meditation.

Okay, I know all this sounds crazy. 28 is young, right? Even I agree with that. I'm not implying that I think I'm ready to trade my car keys for a walker just yet. No, I know that 28 is still young. Do you know what's got me in a tizzy? It's 30. 16 months from now I'm going to be sitting in a restaurant with my family while 18-year-olds with sombreros half-heartedly sing me an off-key chorus of "Happy Birthday." And I'll be thinking about how I'm 30. 30! Holy crap, that sounds old. I distinctly remember when my older sister turned 30. I was 9, so I had no concept of what this must feel like. I thought she was losing her mind to be so upset over a birthday. At the time, birthdays meant presents and cake, not gray hairs and wrinkles. She wanted to jump a gate to prove that she still could. I have a picture. I've never been athletic...I think I won't try that. She's turning 50 just a few months before I turn 30. I can't even fathom what a wreck she must be. She should start a blog to talk to herself about it.

So, I might not be able to fight off the birthdays or the wrinkles, but for now I've defeated the gray hairs. I feel a sense of accomplishment. I win. Now, what can I do about my cellulite and laugh lines? I'll wear them for now. You can't win them all. I know this because I'm a grown-up. I'm almost 30, you know.