Hot People Don't Paint Themselves Into Corners

When I was a student, I learned a lot about behaviour change. That's basically what dietitians do, actually. We help people change one of the first (and therefore, most habitual) behaviours they adopt. If it was easy, I'd be out of a job. Or at least, that's what I tell my clients so they feel more at ease with me.

Well...the thing about hotness, I think, is that it's not really about the way I look. If it was just about that, I'd have stopped writing this long ago. Or at least, I'd have stopped around the time that I moved here...since my downstairs neighbour tells me on a semi-daily basis how good-looking I am. I do not tell him how much he looks like John Wayne's long-lost cousin from Hicksville in return, but I think it every time. Anyway, the hotness thing must really be about my behaviour and my attitude. And I know better than most how hard those things are to change.

Case in point: My discussion of my listing tendencies crossing wires with my romantic life really got me thinking about how the lists are kind of getting in the way of the rest of my life as well. Last week, I sat at home, mourning the fact that all of my friends had plans that night. In order to fill the time, I made another list. Actually, it's way more ridiculous than that. I filled in my brand-spanking new daytimer. Seriously. I spent my Thursday night planning each day of the next year of my life. And sometime midway through that evening, I realized that what I was doing was REALLY effed up. Really. This obviously made me really upset. I frequently lament the fact that I don't have the social life I wish I had. I don't think it's because I'm some socially inept creeper (although, I did spend 8 years doing intercollegiate competitive debate...so perhaps I'm entirely wrong about that). I think it could have something to do with the fact that when I get into a social situation (except, of course, when I'm already a little bit tipsy), I feel like I have nothing to add to the situation. When I realized this, I also realized that rather than keeping the daytimer as a contingency for a dry spell in my social life, I was doing it as an excuse not to get myself out there. This is a depressing notion, and I've been pretty sad lately as a result.

Let me tell you a seemingly unrelated story. I thought of it the same night, as I was chopping jalapenos to put in a delicious mango salsa. The last time (or at least the most memorable time) I was chopping jalapenos, I was home alone back in Halifax. I was making supper for me and my then-boyfriend who was working until 10 or so at a restaurant just around the corner. The knife I was using must have been kind of dull, because as I was chopping, jalapeno juice was flying everywhere. And a big juicy drop of it landed directly in my eye. I'm sure you can guess that the resulting pain was, well, excruciating. And I'm not even sure excruciating really covers it. It was...AAAAAAAUGH...pain. And I panicked. I didn't know WHAT to do. I grabbed an ice cube, stuck it directly on my eye, and staggered my way, depth-perceptionless, around the corner to the burger joint where my boyfriend was working. Since he was working for at least another half hour, and I felt as though this was something that needed to be dealt with immediately, I stole his tips for the night and grabbed a cab to emerg. I could have gotten the cab for free, as it turned out, because a girl holding ice to her eye and asking to be driven to the ER in the evening just begs to be pitied. Probably because she looks like someone's taken the boots to her, and not because she's a culinary dolt, though. When I got to emerg, the triage service asked what had happened and upon hearing my story responded with "Ouch, that's gotta suck." Yes, I thought, it sure does. Now please get me to some kind of eyewash station. Give me some kind of antidote to this burning, burning pain. I learned that night that there is, and I quote, "no medical treatment for jalapeno juice in the eye." This was the last straw. I turned, stomped out, possibly flipped the bird to the triage service for failing to take pity on me, and promptly began to sob. With the first teardrops to leave my eyes, the burning pain immediately subsided. Huh...so there's no MEDICAL treatment for jalapeno juice in the eye, but there is a perfectly natural, holistic treatment. Just start bawling.

As I was remembering this story, I realized I couldn't remember the last time I actually cried. I came very close, a couple of times, recently. Once was when a friend asked me what my favourite thing about myself was and I genuinely couldn't think of an answer. The other was when I considered that, though my current dating situation has hurled me into a kind of tumultuous tug-of-war with myself, it is immensely better than the given-up, dead-feeling person I was towards the end of my last relationship. And perhaps a good cry would be just the thing to release all this pent-up depression I've been feeling. But, I don't know if that would get to the root of the problem. I've got a (this time, emotional) burning feeling again, and I know something's gotta give if I'm going to get rid of it.

So here we are back at the daytimer. I feel like I need to break out of my protective shell of plans and lists. And I don't know how the heck to do it. I'm really not good at being impulsive, and when I am, it's usually not very good for me (I'm REALLY good at buying candy on impulse, for example). On the other hand, if I consider my romantic life - in an effort not to have that dead-feeling again I've been making a conscious effort not to do things the same way. In fact, I'm considering dating in ways I never, ever thought I would. See: not wearing the proverbial pants ALL THE EFFING TIME, and obviously, also, restraining from labeling and listing. And I think my strategies are working there, to at least some extent. Perhaps I can use this success to motivate me to change in other areas of my life. At least, that's what I'd suggest to my clients if I wanted to help them decrease their potato portion.

One thing I know for sure is that I have to break down some walls, or I'm never going to get out of this corner and get what I want.

Hot People Know the Score

Ok - so life in a small Northern Ontario town hasn't been COMPLETELY boring these days (don't get me wrong...it's still pretty boring...but I'll take it. For now).

The more faithful readers will be WELL aware of my angst about aging. This may have been exacerbated by my compulsion to be friends with people 6 years my junior. Maybe. While life as a diabetes educator has not cured me of that particular angst completely (it's more likely now that I'm even MORE scared of getting old when I see what kind of health crap these people have to deal with), I am at least assured that I am not as ancient as my previous, friend-of-twenty-year-olds self had believed.

Score 1 Miss T

To add to this reassurance, last weekend I was carded not once, but twice. The first time was the more hilarious of the two. I was at the LCBO when the lady at the counter asked me if I had ID to go with my purchase of a mid-priced sparkling wine. I laughed, hauled out my brand-spanking-new Ontario Drivers License (disgusting picture, btw...the province doesn't let you smile...one more reason I miss Nova Scotia), said it had been a while since I'd had that request, and handed it over. At this point, there were three people behind me waiting to purchase their weekend's mind-numbing solutions. The woman checked my birthdate, but no, that was not enough. She also felt it necessary to further delay the line-up of people waiting for the sweet relief at the end of their work-weeks to hold the license up to my face for comparison lest I be the kind of rapscallion who tries to use someone else's face at a BRIGHTLY LIT LIQUOR STORE AT 6 PM. This process took at least 120 seconds. I enjoyed every one of them.

Score 1 Miss T

The other id check happened when I joined one of the gyms in town. A twig-sized girl, obviously no older than 17, asked me if I was over 18 when I was filling out my PAR-Q. I'm pretty sure the force of my laughter mussed up her hair. But hey...when the kids think I'm one of them, that can't be bad, right?

Score 1 Miss T

I joined a choir two weeks ago. It a. is not completely (or even slightly) populated with blue-haired old warbling women, and b. a step in the right direction if I want to diversify my extra-curriculars so my life isn't just about failed debating. And I'm pretty good at it. One might say I'm an asset. Or at least, I might. Because I'm fly like that.

Score 1 Miss T

After the first choir practice, I had pizza with a guy in the choir. It was kind of spur of the moment, but he sprung for the pizza. We talked for about an hour and a half. We seem to have a lot in common. When we left and went our separate ways, we parted with an awkward hug.

Score...shit. I don't know.

Did I just have a date? There was food and good conversation and someone treating, but it wasn't pre-planned. Does that make a difference? If it WAS a date, how'd I do? I wasn't prepared. Can I have a re-test?

Also, what do I do with that awkward hug? The post-analysis has been shot to shit by that hug. Does it mean I'm in the friendzone (which would be fine...I'd just like to know), or what?

Here is what I know about the romance-calibre of date endings:

Kiss > Awkward Hug > Handshake > Watching him run away screaming

But THAT. IS. ALL.

Surely hot people know what dates are (I have several friends who have suggested to me that this is the case. They DO know).

Anyway, the limbo I'm feeling on the romantic front kind of echoes the limbo I'm feeling everywhere else. My life isn't super exciting right now, but hey, at least I look young and fresh, and to some people LIKE A CHILD. Huzzah?

Hot People Don't Have Bad Hair

I often find myself torn between what is hot NOW and what will make me hot IN THE LONG RUN. My hair seems to have found itself in this sort of epic battle royale at the moment.

My entire life, hair-related angst has sent me into near catatonic states on an extremely regular basis. When it is curly (as it is naturally), I imagine that it kind of resembles an impressionist painting - you know...it looks nice from about ten feet away, but when you get up close to it, it's basically a mess (or at least, that's how Cher Horowitz would describe it). This "mess" problem was mitigated somewhat by the discovery of a $3 curling creme I found at the grocery store that works a ZILLION times better than anything I've ever purchased at a salon (for 5x the price), but when it rains (as it seems to be doing ALL THE TIME these days), it still definitely looks more Claude Monet than John Frieda. The advent of the ceramic straightener was a terrific boon to me. All of a sudden, if nothing else, at least my hair could be hot. Except of course, again, when it rains. Then it just looks like I rolled out of bed and forgot to brush it. At that point, there's really nothing for it except to resort to an "I-give-up" hat or pony-tail holder, lest I be forced to walk around in public looking like Eraserhead.

Much of the art and science of my hair has to do with the cut, and getting a good one isn't easy. My stylist in Halifax was fantastic, but since I don't live there anymore (and neither does he), obviously I can't get cuts from him. Instead, I was referred to the stylist of a friend. This woman works out of her basement. This was obviously my first red flag. The last time I got a haircut in somebody's house it was free and it was done my friend who cut my hair with her kitchen scissors and decided to give me baby bangs without taking into account that they might curl up when my hair dried. The previous time before that, it was for my prom, and the woman curled my hair, then decided one side was longer than the other, so she CUT IT AFTER IT HAD BEEN CURLED to even it out. My experience of home haircuts has been fabulous, you can tell.

Anyway, this woman had a sort of salon in her basement. Her dog kept us company, and she spoke like a sailor. I can see why a spa setting was not a good fit for her. However, the cut she gave me was fabulous, despite my concern about the venue. Truly now, if left to its own devices, or straightened, my hair can certainly add to my hotness (or at least, it is hot on its own).

Unfortunately, there are a number of things that get in the way (yes, that battle royale I referred to in the opening paragraph!).

First of all, I'm pretty sure most hot people are gainfully employed. I'm interning with the food service management of a local hospital. This means I work in a kitchen and consequently wear a hairnet all day. All day. As a result, I seldom bother with my hair because even if it did look fabulous nobody would see it all day. Also, the hairnet has a tendency, by the end of the day, to flatten residual fabulousness so that even seeing people sans 'net after work means my hair won't be amazing. It's a difficult choice to make: continue with an internship that will lead to future employment, or have fabulous hair EVERY SINGLE DAY?

Secondly, hot people are fit (or are, at least, trying to be). I'm still cycling, only now I've parlayed my leisure activity into a handy way to get to work (I say handy...it actually takes me upwards of an hour and a half to commute each way). Unfortunately, I've moved to a city FULL of cyclists, which means that on an almost daily basis I am reminded of how very BAD (read: painfully slow) a cyclist I am. I don't mind it when twenty-somethings zip by me because I assume a. that they have schmancy bikes that I don't have and b. they've been cycling for YEARS and I've only been doing it for a few months after YEARS of neglect, but when OLD MEN are zooming past me I start to feel a little demoralised. However, I press on in the hopes that it will contribute to my goal. But, I find that the combination of bicycle helmet and sweat-inducing cardiovascular activity ALSO results in a coiff that resembles the helmet for hours after its removal. Très chic!

So this is obviously a conundrum that has taken up a significant portion of my thinking time. I think I'll probably stick with being "hot in the long run," but this WILL mean endless complaining about the state of my hair in the meantime. Fair warning.