My application for assisted living

Gas. Not the kind I get from trying to process dairy, but the kind that makes my car purr down the highway at 70 miles an hour has become synonymous with my particular lifestyle. I've gotten gas one or twice a week for the last 10 years of my life. You'd think I'd be a master at it by now... But alas, like still needing to wear a bib, having to look at my feet when I walk, and my inability to make my bed every morning, I have come to the conclusion that God made me special.

It was a sweltering Thursday evening on my way home from work when my car beeped at me signaling it's hunger for fuel. Just my luck, I was coming to the gas station located around the corner from my dwelling. I pull in and all the stalls look to be occupied. But wait! If I can squeeze myself between the curb and this car here, I can pull into a stall from the other side. I crept by her, making sure not to scratch her cherry red SUV, when I realized three things: 1.  I was suddenly very hungry, 2. She was looking at me funny, and 3. There seemed to be orange pylons and yellow caution tape purposefully located right in front of her bumper... I didn't put this together right away. I saw enough space to maneuver my car through the tight space, so that is exactly what I did.

That's when I saw the construction equipment, several more pylons, and multiple Hispanic men waving their arms at me. I soon realized that I was driving on asphalt not quite ready to be driven on. What does one do in this situation? Bail out and run for home base? Apologize profusely and offer to pay their wages for a year? Tell them you are dying of a horrific disease and pray they feel sorry for you? The answer would be D, none of the above. My emotions took control of my brain and I froze at the wheel. After 3 minutes an elderly Hispanic man waddled over to me and informed me to not move or I'll mess everything up. I suggested that they build my car into the parking lot as a beautiful artistic sculpture while I turned 10 shades of red and continued trying to apparate somewhere... anywhere else. Needless to say, he did not laugh, chuckle, or even smirk at my remark. He simply grimaced, mumbled a couple of choice words under his breath and guided me to safe harbor. I quickly left the gas station with my foot lodged firmly between my teeth. Still on an empty tank.

Mujer blanca loca acercarse,

Jessica

I am an 80 year old man.

As a woman, I have been trained [by society, family, and hair dressers] to rid myself of unwanted facial hair. I have plucked and waxed my eyebrows religiously in fear of the possible unibrow, waxed my lip despite the searing pain, and embarrassingly enough, plucked stray chin or cheek hairs that may have had the courage to take purchase on my face. It is a daily ritual that I have come to accept as a fact of life... or a fact of my life at least.

Every morning there are a few more that I had either missed the day before, or that decided to stage a revolution and grow exponentially within a mere couple of hours. It is an everyday battle for a woman at my level of hairy. The possible titles for my memoir include: 'Bearded Lady Converts Thousands', 'Woman Studied at MIT for Unbelievable Facial Hair Gene', and 'New Model for Rogaine is Female'. Maybe I could become a therapist for other women going through this. I know they exist. We could create a support group, rally behind a cure, take donations for a laser hair removal fund, make t-shirts that exclaim "with beardy" for our significant others, or maybe invest in a lifetime supply of nair. I firmly believe that there could be safety and acceptance in numbers.

Anyway, back to my own personal nightmare... It was a blissful Thursday morning while putting on my makeup in my daylight mirror (my biggest critic that uses a 10x magnifier and the light of truth to warn me of any embarrassing stray hairs loitering upon my oily face) and that's when I spotted it: A hair. Blonde and exceedingly long in length. "It couldn’t possibly be attached… no, it’s from my hair… the actual hair that is supposed to reside on my head… it has to be..." I told myself in denial. I gathered air into my lungs as I caught the stray hair with my finger tips and exhaled slowly as I pulled it outward searching for the root…

Yes, it was indeed attached. Attached to my earlobe... a first for me. It seemed that overnight (not overnight, I had to have been cultivating that sucker for sometime) I had turned into an 80 year old man with hairy ears. This is what I had been training for. I was Rocky and I had come to the foot of the stairs. I squared my shoulders and told myself all is not lost… even though I firmly believed otherwise… I got out my trusty tweezers and pulled. Hard. (For future knowledge, that area is extremely sensitive and it HURTS.) Next, I did the only rational thing I could and checked my other ear. Regretfully, I found and plucked it’s mate.

I am proud to say that I am [momentarily] ear hair free. Tomorrow I will be checking my toes, knuckles, and nose because that also comes with turning 80... right?

When I was your age,

Jessica


P.S. Dear men: if you don't believe women work this hard to remain free of facial hair, I’m deeply sorry to have spoiled your ignorance.

Hashtag No Filter.

When your car decides she hates you.

When your car decides he/she hates you, he/she might not warn you when the battery is dying or decide to run out of windshield wiper fluid when you have a swarm of bugs plastering your windshield or maybe even lock your keys inside it's iron trap doors without a spare key in sight. Mine? Mine isn't into subtle. She simply decides to massacre my tire.

It's a fine if not groggy Thursday morning (a late night of volleyball and giggles the night before) and my 40 hours in 4 days makes this Thursday my Friday. If I had the energy to jump and click my heels together, trust me I would have. I drive 14.5 minutes of my 15 minute drive without incident. It's a smooth ride and Jolene and I are blasting the Gavin DeGraw. Then, it happens. There is no yellow caution tape or bright orange cone marking the spot of our demise. Just a subsequent thump thump as I drive the last 30 yards...

I decide the loud thumping is my imagination. I park in my usual spot and think I'll do a once over of Jolene before I go inside. I didn't need the once over. As soon as I stepped out into the world, I heard the sound of an air mattress deflating... If only there had been an air mattress in sight. Yes, the sound was coming from my tire. In my calm, cool, collected manner to which I am accustomed, I start pacing, hyperventilating, and calling my parents 7 times in a row (it is 6:30 A.M. their time and I'm an awful child) until my mother (probably in a deep slumbering haze) texts me "need something?"... Uh actually, yes... 3 aspirin and a time machine please. She then tells me to call Triple A and have them come put on my spare. Such a voice of reason in this fiery horrific disaster. So, I park Jolene as far away from civilization as possible and wait. Finally, the call comes and I make the long trek across the parking lot (where I left Jolene to think about what she had done) where a young, very handsome man changes my tire as we exchange pleasantries. This man almost made the whole thing worth it for sure. So now Jolene has a pitiful, ugly, too small tire and it's all her own fault.

In conclusion, cars are people too. Treat them with respect and maybe they won't fatally wound your tire.

My tire is probably in heaven,

Jessica