We’re moving this week. Into a gigantic, luxurious apartment. By which I mean, it has two rooms and a DISHWASHER!!! A dishwasher. I want to write the word again and again. Because it’s about to change my life. It’s about to make my life so much better. I can’t even comprehend the full extent of how much better my life is going to be. I will put the plates into the machine, with some special liquid dishwasher soap, and I’ll close the door. And then, in a bit, the plates will be clean. Like magic. And I won’t have to choose between writing another chapter of the book I’m working on and being able to eat with a clean fork. Because that’s not a choice anyone should be forced to make.
So I’m really excited about that. But I’m not excited about other things. And they are things that I’m supposed to be excited about.
I’m not excited about decorating. About figuring out which pictures to hang on the walls and where exactly the couch should go, and if we need another bookshelf, but this time with extra cubbies for delicate glass vases and a little sculpture of a frog. Or a farm animal. Or the Buddha. I don’t understand the art of end tables. I don’t feel inspired to learn. I’d like to live in a beautiful space. Where the colors work. And the style is funky, original, and yet, completely aesthetically understandable. The kind of place that people walk into and think, “Why didn’t I think of that? So simple, and so….brilliantly creative.” But I don’t know how to make a room look like that, and I don’t really want to spend time trying to figure it out.
(image source here)
I’m not excited about wedding planning. My mother is much more excited than I am. She has boundless energy. She’s detail oriented. She loves celebrations. I don’t care about a lot of the details. I care a lot about that moment when I’m facing my fiancé under the chuppah, and he’s looking at me, and I’m three seconds away from being officially married to the love of my life. But the flowers? I mean, I want them to be beautiful. I want everyone to walk into the room and look around and have to catch their breath, because it’s so stunning. I want it to be magical, like stardust might just drift down from the ceiling at any moment. But I don’t want to spend my time picking out perfect flowers.
I’m not excited about making myself look better. I talked about this a little in my post on my beauty routine (an idea I stole from Virginia at Beauty Schooled). I talk a lot about wanting to be beautiful, about struggling with my appearance, about sometimes feeling beautiful, about the concept of beauty itself. I’d like to be one of those women who walks down the street in an outfit that just works in every way. It’s cool, sexy, fascinating, fashionable, perfectly complimentary of her unique look. Her hair, also, is amazing. She’s figured out a style that suits her face. Everything is just right. The nails. The shoes. The makeup, which is subtle and elegant, but a little spunky. I want people to look at me and think I have mastered my look. But I don’t’ want to spend a bunch of time figuring my look out. I don’t care enough about my hair to do anything with it. My hair doesn’t care enough about me to do anything, even if I want it to. For my first date with my fiancé, I picked an outfit about five minutes before I met him. I kept thinking, as I put it on, “Shouldn’t you be making more of an effort? Shouldn’t you WANT to spend time picking this outfit?” That part is fun, after all, even if the date isn’t (that date definitely was. I mean, he brought me an enormous sunflower and we had a conversation about how you might work magic realism into a young adult book about the revolutionary war. How could I not fall for the guy?). It’s not that I never enjoy dressing up. I do. But I’m never willing to make a serious study of my appearance. I’m just willing to complain about it, quickly and succinctly.
Anyway, sometimes I just get the sense that there are all these things that women do, that I just can’t seem to get excited about. Not all women, of course. But lots and lots of women (and quite a few men as well). And I’m not trying to say that those things are bad, or that I’m bad for not liking them enough. They just look fun, sometimes, and I wonder why I don’t actually enjoy them.
Who knows. Maybe once I have a dishwasher, I’ll have more time to get my nails done.
(look at it beckoning! Image source here)
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What doesn’t excite you that excites a lot of other people? I’m also not into music videos, beer, any movie with a sad ending, fashion magazines, reality TV, and skiing. But I love hip hop.
Un-roast: Today I love my friendliness. I’m really friendly. I hold the door for people a lot. And I love my tan shoulders. I was out in the sun a lot over the weekend. My fiance and I played tag. Just us. Because we are still very young children, and may always be that way. Which is good, because I may need to practice for a few more years before I can catch him.
P.S. Thank you to a reader named Sarah who wrote me an incredible email today that really touched me. I wanted to acknowledge you here, and also, I’m about to write back.
P.P.S I didn’t link my last Huffpo piece, because sometimes I feel sort of silly doing that, especially when the piece is adapted from something I wrote here. I’m not sure if this is something I need to get over or what. Just letting you know.
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