Moving targets
Home Affairs: Workaholism, a new disease, caffeine-management tips, a favor, body hair, a mechanical keyboard, when you want someone to shut up, and Chamomille baths.
I’ve tried to change my relationship with body hair. My own body hair, I mean. I’ve tried to grow it and not care. But it turns out I like it better when I shave. Although I hate shaving. But I like the results. Waxing isn’t for me. So here I am considering laser. It’s kind of a permanent thing. The feminist in me is angry, You should love your body hair, and fully accept who you are. Oh my God! But I don’t, I just don’t. I’ve tried. I’ve tried for over a decade and it’s too deep into my subconscious. I love my bronzed soft-like-silk skin. And there’s that. Death is the only permanent thing, isn’t it?
I love to work. I just do. There's no way around it. Nothing gets me more pumped than an early morning, my two-espresso-shots-oat+soy milk-collagen-coffee (I know, I've become that person, but I wake up because I know I can have that coffee). Nothing brighter than the certainty that my son will be at school because he's not sick, I'm not sick, no one in the house is sick and there's a full day of hours and hours to work ahead of me. I'm telling you. That's the real high, everything else, falls short. I began seeing work as “me-time” after my son was born. Before that, it was almost excruciating to face the blank page, or sit down to edit, or hop on calls. But when I saw my freedom slip between my fingers, work became precious time. A wise man once said, “We have two lives; the second begins when we realize we only have one.” That wise man was Confucius. Wise, but a man, after all. Had a woman written that… It would look more like: