This morning, I had to get up early and get into town to get photographed for a magazine. Now, I’m normally up early—for some ungodly reason, I can’t seem to sleep past 7:15, even when I try—but there’s a big difference between being up to work out, update the blog and drink coffee and being up and ready to be photographed. For instance, there’s the issue of the hair, which cannot be up in some messy ponytail, and the makeup, which must be, well, existent. Especially at nine am. We’re talking major need for concealer, people. So there I am, early early, slapping on the foundation and dealing with the hair and I’m thinking, man, have I been slumming the last month or so. When I was on the book tour, and even after that, when I was still doing lots of promotion, I was in high maintenence mode EVERY day. Which is crazy.
And, to me is, honestly, kind of torturous. I realized long ago that I was never going to be one of those people who always looks perfect, because even if this was possible (and I don’ t think it is) I just don’t have the drive for what it would take, i.e. careful hair drying, daily makeup application, serious outfit coordination, constant vigilance on the fronts of tweezing, lipstick and carrying the right bag. Once, I made efforts. I took a shot. And I learned….it’s just not happening. I may be capable of pulling it together when absolutely necessary, like today for the required few minutes to get a good shot, but it’s only a matter of time before I spill something on myself, or the mascara flakes. Oh, well. It was nice while it lasted.
So now I’m sitting here, in the epicenter of Carrboro, having just devoured a blueberry muffin (the crumbs of which are—yes!—all over my lap.). There are all sorts of people here outside: moms with kids, girls in combat boots with tattoos, and a couple of tables over, a Buddhist monk tapping away at a laptop. I’ve said here before that a lot of the crunchiness of Carrboro is not really my thing, but at the same time, I’m really grateful that I live in a place where, if I so desired, I COULD go out on Sunday morning and hula hoop with a bunch of barefoot women while a steel drum band plays nearby. Now, I can’t imagine wanting to do that, personally. But it’s nice to have it as an option. You just never know.
Recently, though, there was a scandal at this place where I’m sitting now when the management of the area got bent out of shape about a local guy who liked to dance on the lawn. If you lived anywhere near here, you couldn’t miss this guy: every time I was at the nearby stoplight, I’d just sit and look at him as he did his wild gyrations and sun salutations. Not hurting anyone. Definitely freaky, though, and crunchy to the extreme. He’d been around forever, but apparently someone complained, or something, because he was asked to stop. Now, again, this is not my thing. But at the same time, what’s the big deal? I’d understand if he was threatening people, but he wasn’t. It all just seems kind of ridiculous to me, especially since this is the same place that is known for being probably the most liberal, arts-centered, out-there town in the state. If you can’t be a freak in Carrboro, where can you? Certainly not Raleigh, or Charlotte, that’s for sure.
*steps off soapbox*
*wipes off muffin crumbs*
Anyway. It’s Friday, the sun is finally out. I’m going to head home, wash my face, and put my hair up. Return to life as normal, or as normal as it gets, anyway. It is all subjective, right?