I thought I really enjoyed my ride flight on the London Eye. Then I saw the pictures taken of me on the flight. Looking back maybe I didn’t enjoy it at all. How else can I explain all the crazy faces I was making?
I’ve decided to let my hair grow out. I’ve always wanted long hair. When I was a little girl I’d put a bath towel over my head and pretend it was my long hair. I’d flip it this was and that and say things like, “Don’t you love my beautiful long hair?”
I normally keep my hair cut to just about jaw length, but once every couple of years I decide to grow it long. That’s how long it takes me to forget what happened the last time I tried to grow my hair long. It gets bigger not longer.
In this badly taken picture (I’m yet to master the art of photographing myself) my hair doesn’t look much longer than it was when I first moved to the UK. But if I stretch my hair out….
…it’s well past my shoulders. See. See. I told you it’s grown.
If I continue to let it grow, it’ll just get bigger and bigger until I become the woman no one wants to sit behind in the movie theater. The idea of that used to make me feel really self-conscious, but now I don’t care. I’m ready to be that woman. I don’t like it when people sit behind me in the movie theater anyway. They always kick the back of my seat.
I’ve been ignoring the blog recently. It’s not because I don’t love all of you and want to tell you every detail about incredibly fascinating life. It’s just been because I’ve been busy or preoccupied or cold. Enough excuses. Here are some pictures.
This website is an example of the kinds of things that are parts of bodywork. Watch the video in the top left corner. She mentions the relaxing aroma of yak butter lamps. Come on.
This is my zest for life look–like someone who writes personal essays that brighten the spirit, is the funniest one at the party, has a firm grasp on the spirit of adventure, and never walks into walls.
This is my pensive look–like someone who writes fiction that profoundly affects humanity, has read all of the classics, knows her grammar, and always has exact change.
It’s hard for me to resist a help wanted sign. I have this constant need to ask for job applications. I’m not looking for a new job. I’ve been at the same job for almost three years now. That’s a long time for me. I’m always looking for something better. I’m always reaching, hoping, wondering what I could become.
Yesterday, I drove by a local real estate school and found myself thinking that maybe I should get into real estate. I think things like that quite a lot. I ride in a taxi and consider becoming a taxi driver. I buy a new pair of shoes and consider becoming a shoe salesperson. I eat a salad and imagine life as a farmer.
I would not excel at any of these jobs. I’m horrible at sales mainly because I don’t like spending money and can’t understand why anyone else would. When I worked in retail at a Levi’s store, I often found myself directing customers to the Levi’s outlet store in the next town over. In my opinion, forty dollars is just too much to spend on a pair of jeans. I would be a terrible taxi driver because I don’t like to drive. I especially don’t like to drive other people around. The responsibility makes me nervous and so would the small talk and possibility of being robbed. Farming isn’t for me either because I can’t keep a plant alive to save my life.
When I was in college, I used to ask people whether they liked their jobs. Most people lied and told me that they did. When I asked why they liked them, people frequently told me it was because they get to talk to different kinds of people. That’s a good thing, if you like to talk to people. Most of the time, I don’t.
What job is right for me? I don’t know. I’m still looking for the ideal job. Unfortunately, that might not exist. I’ll keep on looking until I’m sure it doesn’t.
