thoughts on rash decisions, getting dressed, and other arbitrary banalities of daily life in the age of quarantine

You know what is hard for me to understand?

Why is it that during times of extreme stress or duress, I have to fight with every fiber of my being to resist the urge to get bangs and, in fact, even have close friends keeping tabs on the whereabouts of my kitchen sheers. But my husband? That jerk can flippantly decide to just live it up a little which, in this particular case, resulted in him looking like the secret love child of a Duck Dynasty brother and Patrick Dempsey who is fresh out of fucks to give.

Sure, I’m walking around in the same yoga pants I’ve been wearing since…hell, I don’t even know. It has likely been since I was politely informed that I’d be spending the rest of my prime adult years stuck inside with three children who are positively determined to break me. In an effort to not inflict any more offense upon my family, I bought some new ones. They’re purple and obnoxious and I love them. And, yes, in case you’re wondering, I’ve worn them every day since they’ve arrived and I will not apologize for my lack of effort, be it intentional or not. (It was intentional so, yeah.) Which is how I’ve come to the conclusion that, after years of strong-willed and stubborn dedication to ignoring the impulse to choose comfort over ones’ desired overall aesthetic, I enthusiastically stand in dedicated sartorial allegiance with the army of suburban Karen’s and Becky’s everywhere who are brave enough to wear yoga pants in public with no plans whatsoever to actually attend a yoga class. I will wear my yoga pants as a suit of honor because that’s what yoga pants deserve. Nobody wants to say it out loud but I think it’s painfully obvious that yoga pants are the MVP’s of quarantine. (God, I hope you know I’m kidding. Clearly, Netflix and discount wine wear sparkly capes designed only for heroes.)

(I suppose it’s worth noting that while I am officially in favor of the pajamas in public aspect of Karen, the ignorant white privilege part I’ll never be down with. Just wanted to make that crystal clear. While we’re on the subject, you will also not see me giddily drinking pumpkin spice lattes, wearing Ugg boots, or raging against the societal machine because I can’t handle a single ounce of inconvenience thrown anywhere in my direction. I only claimed to dress like a Karen, not being unapologetic asshole. BIG difference. Carry on.)

This may sound slightly dramatic to some but the day before the Stay at Home order went into effect in NC (where I live), I drove like a bat straight out of hell to my favorite wine shop (they carry all the good orange and rosé wines) and bought a case of my favorite wine du jour in the name of survival. I know that relying on alcohol during tough times is the opposite of healthy as is Mommy Wine Culture as a whole but that’s not what this is. This isn’t me needing wine to cope with homeschooling my three maniacal tyrants—I mean, precious angels. No, rather I treated myself to a case of my favorite wine because even before shit really started hitting the fan, I had the wherewithal to expect that maintaining any semblance of joy would require actively looking for small pockets of it.

So. Yeah. The wine. It was merely insurance along with new yoga pants and a forty ounce bag of my favorite spicy snack. Twelve bottles of a beautiful orange wine from Oregon. (Before you go and judge me, I’d like to note that I bought twelve bottles because, conveniently, the wine shop offers you a 15% discount when you buy in bulk so, I mean, was there even another option?)(The answer is a HARD NO.)(One could argue that all of Joe’s pleading for thriftier spending habits finally stuck.) (Joe doesn’t exactly see it that way nor does he believe that this purchase can legitimately be categorized as “thrifty spending” since one doesn’t technically *need* twelve bottles of wine but we shall respectfully agree to vehemently disagree.)(Also, I always win so there’s that.)

I think it’s becoming painfully obvious just how desperately I am in need of more consistent human physical interaction. I probably wouldn’t word vomit all of my banal thoughts on the internet if I could talk about the things that don’t really matter with actual human beings. Surely, I’d stop wearing my goddamned yoga pants every day. (But, seriously guys, why are they just so damn comfortable?!?! Clearly, Satan' propaganda.) Maybe I’d even GO to a yoga class in an effort to sweat out the overall crappiness of my new medicine regimen. That’s an entire blog post for another day but, WHOA.

Maybe if I could interact with humans other than the four I’m living with and have mostly given birth to, I could march right into my preferred salon, plop my enlarged-by-quarantined ass down in my stylist’s chair, defy everyone’s direct orders to not get bangs just because life is hard right now, and throw all of the fucks I normally give out the open, quarantined-no-more window and GET THE FUCKING BANGS. Call it an act of rebellion, call it an AHA! moment likely induced by the indefinite amount of time I’ve had recently to sit and think about all of the things I don’t do for stupid fucking reasons that are not my own and all of the things I’ve always done for reasons I can’t actually explain other than it’s just what I’ve always fucking done.

*Editor’s Note: I think I may be experiencing a bit of an existential crisis brought on by too much family time and not enough to do but let’s roll with it, shall we?

Maybe I’ll really rage and jump head first right off that omnipresent hamster wheel that tells us that we should do, be, look, feel, live, and experience life in a specific manner or else we’re condemning ourselves to being an outlier, an oddball, a uniquity, a loose cannon. If we don’t do life as we’re told we should in the manner in which it’s believed best to be done, we’ll sell ourselves short of our full potential. If we don’t do things just like this or that, we will surely regret it until the end of time if only because we’re sold the belief that Option B wasn’t Option A for a reason. We’re conditioned to believe that there is one way to do things right and there are a million ways to do things wrong and if you do things the wrong way….

I guess this is a very rambly (fairly certain that rambly isn’t a real word but, dammit, it isn’t now) long way of saying that while I, along with nearly every other human on the planet, desperately want life to resemble some recognizable version of life before COVID kicked our asses, I remain undecided as to what degree of normal includes pre-COVID normalcy. I want life to feel less scary, sure. But I don’t necessarily want to forget that life doesn’t end if you stop what you’re doing and play with your kids on the floor for thirty minutes instead of firing off emails to clients who want fabric samples because you think your career won’t continue to flourish if you aren’t always available to reply. Yes, I want to enjoy having autonomy over my day and have the ability to visit my favorite little coffee spot for my morning caffeine pitstop but I don’t want to go back to a life full of nothing but routines for the sake of having one. I no longer want to contribute to the cultural doctrine that our worth is inextricably linked to what we do or don’t accomplish/wear/look like/who we hang out with. I want to once again enjoy quiet moments because I’m finally re-exposed to the noise of life happening around me therefore I can appreciate the quiet and voluntary solitude. I want grocery shopping to no longer be a reprieve from my partner and kids and go back to being one of my favorite things in the world to do. I want to have a reason to wear jeans but I am excited for the liberated stance of wearing yoga pants I damn well please.

Because I do wear them. And I very much like wearing them. And they do very nice things for my buttocks. They also wear well while sipping my favorite orange wine as I type-spew a virtual onslaught of the contents of my overactive brain onto this very here page.

Here’s to embracing whatever our new normal is, whenever it arrives, and not forgetting what we’ve learned along the way. Stay well, friends.

dispatch no. 04 | day no. 030

When placed under any degree of stress, uncertainty, fear, or direct threat of indefinite disruption to my overall quality of life, my knee-jerk reactive coping strategy is to cut my hair. Most often, it’s a subtle change by way of some new fringe above my brow. Bangs don’t feel quite so irrational or dramatic as, say, going full-on G.I. Jane and buzzing off your entire head of hair. Bangs don’t feel as intimidating as deciding that, of course, I will look amazing when my hair is colored a shade so clearly far off from anything nature ever intended it to be but fuck it! The world is ending so why the hell not!!!

After the birth of both of my girls, I chopped off no less than six inches of my hair. Some would think making a bad decision twice would be enough to know better the next time but not indulging in old habits would be too easy. After Knox was born, I really felt the need to take it up a notch with the dedication to giving zero fucks. Also, it’s amazing how misery and chronic exhaustion allow delusion to trump the rationale and reason your loved ones are not so subtly trying to persuade you with.

Anyway, Knox was six weeks old and I was in the thick of that postpartum rut so many women can identify with. Nothing fit, my hair was falling out in clumps, I was always sweaty, smelled like curry, and while continued to leak from various orifices, my precious baby boy never stopped fucking crying. Unable to convince the tyrant to politely shut the fuck up, I picked an easier opponent and took on the job of convincing myself that, more than sleep or a babysitter or even a shower, what I really needed was to ask a stylist I’d never previously gone to to kindly chop off nearly twelve inches of my hair with a razor. In the time it takes to read a single gossip magazine, my hair was brutally mowed down by her relentless pruning. When she excitedly spun me around to admire my own reflection, I only saw a mortified, mutilated, butt-ass ugly hair cut atop my dome, settling just above my rounder-than-normal cheeks thanks to the thirty pounds I’d yet to lose from pregnancy. I’m no authority on hair seeing as how I just bought my first hair brush two months ago but I feel fairly confident when I say that the hair I saw in that mirror that day was the exact opposite of good hair.

I fought my heavily hormonally-influenced emotions until I got out of the salon and into my car. As I glanced at the three car seats lined up behind me, I sobbed. And this was no single tear rolling down my cheek situation. No way. This was the ugly cries of all ugly cries the entire two mile drive home and another twelve minutes while parked in the garage as I scrambled to figure out a way I could go into the house and nobody would notice mom’s bad choice du jour. With my tail tucked firmly between my legs, I couldn’t even look at Joe as I opened the back door. Like a tween, I made him promise me that he wouldn’t acknowledge what I’d done verbally, going so far as to threaten him with his own life if he so much as even smirked. Fortunately, I didn’t marry an asshole and he took mercy on me so I didn’t have to kill him that night. Thanks to my exceptionally fragile postpartum ego being on full display, he even tried to lie and tell me that I looked beautiful— “even if my hair looked like a blind four year old cut it.”

I laughed. We laughed. And, luckily, my hair grew back though the process proved to be a real pain in the ass, reminding me why I never should have cut my hair to begin with. And yet, here I am. Itching to get bangs or cut off a half foot again because clearly I am an invested, stubborn emotional cutter and life feels as complicated as ever. Everyone copes differently and all are valid. Some people go for a run or obsessively clean and organize their pantry while others, like myself, intentionally sabotage their entire physical appearance all in the name of a dopamine hit only to get punched in the gut with the inevitable rush of regret.

In times of uncertainty and fear, I find it rather reassuring to know that I remain consistently dedicated to making bad decisions.

It’ll grow back. It, like life, always finds its’ way back.