The Rules

Things I Did This Weekend Instead of Writing

Slept
Made biscuits and gravy
Watched Super 8
Watched Running Wilde
Stayed in my bathrobe until 8PM
Drank porter and rye
SEIZED THE DAY*


*I hate break the news this way to you, Mom, but I finally broke that last rule of yours.

When I was in high school, it became clear that there were three rules not to break. They weren't your typical rules, ones about sex or school or eating vegetables. They were:

1. Don't get a fake tan.
2. Don't get a facial piercing.
3. Don't bleach your hair.

One summer during high school, I thought it would be a good idea to break rule number one and get some fake sun; I worked outside in the summers watering plants, and wanted to get a base tan. Also, a good friend had extolled the virtues of the tanning salon in terms of easing her seasonal affective disorder. I remember the front desk person asking me if I'd ever tanned before, and then asking me how long I wanted them to set the bed for. They must have had an excellent belly laugh at my expense when I said 15 minutes, because later I learned 2 or 3 minutes would have been more appropriate. Anyway, I took off all of my clothes, put on the little goggles, and got myself a tan.

Soon after, I went with my friend John to the movies, and when we exited, he stopped dead in his tracks and asked me if I was okay. I said that I was a little bit hot, but yes, I was fine. And then I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror and saw my TERRIFYING, PUFFY, ANGRY RED FACE.

And then I realized that the rest of my body was just more of the same. Scalp, feet, belly button. All of it. AHHHH. AHHHHHHHHH.

And of course, that being the first rule on the list, I did not want to tell my mother. So, I spent at least a week having my coworkers put aloe on my back, taking cold baths, and barely sleeping.

Did I learn my lesson? YES. YES I DID.

Rule #2 was broken in the summer of 2003 on a trip to the Twin Cities with the Manhattan Experimental Theater Workshop. Many of the 18 year old participants were asserting their independence by getting piercings, and I felt sufficiently past the time when my mom gave me pamphlets that encouraged a tasteful tattoo over a facial monstrosity. A friend owed me $40, so she paid for me to get my nose pierced. When I got home, my mom looked at me a little bit sideways, and clearly held her tongue.

A month later, she came to visit and told me that it was tasteful and that she quite liked it.

It's been almost 10 years since I broke rule #2, so I figured it's about time I went ahead and broke #3. On Saturday night, while drinking porter and rye and eating Market Fresh pizza in my coworker's kitchen, I became a blond for the very first time in my 29 years.

I'm not ready to show you yet, Mama, but this is your warning.

xoxo,
Blondie

Addendum: The only rule for adult living laid out by my mother that I feel I must adhere to is:

Don't get married until you're 30.
(If you get married at all.)
(Maybe it would be better just to live together.)
(Actually, maybe it would be better to be married and NOT live together.)
(You know you actually get to make your own decisions and I will support you.)

Thanks, Mama. You are, truly, the best.