One day a co-worker dropped the F-bomb on me.

Her: Your hair looks cute curly.

Me: Oh, thanks. I usually straighten it, but it’s naturally curly.

Her: Yeah, I thought so, because of all the little frizzies you always have.

Me: Them’s fighting words.

I didn’t really say that. But those ARE fighting words where I come from…which is twenty-something years of hating my curly hair.

I grew up with long, straight hair. Then puberty hit and BAM! Curly hair. What the hell?? I didn’t know that could even happen, and I felt totally hoodwinked. There was a brief period of time in the 80′s when curly hair was “in” and I rocked it high and proud. But other than that, I either deigned to wear it curly or else straightened it by any means necessary–home straighteners, 5-hour Japanese treatments, flat irons, and even regular old clothes irons (cringe). For years and years I fought my curly hair and cursed my dad, who’s curly hair made for some amazing afro’s back in the day, but seriously? What kind of Asian has naturally curly hair? Had to be MY dad.

During the periods that I actually made an effort to embrace my hair, I tried gels (made my hair too crunchy) and mousse (not enough hold) and even coconut oil (hello jheri curl!). Whatever I tried just didn’t work for me. But then I came across this post a couple of months ago, which led me to this book, and now I finally, finally love my curly hair. I just needed to learn the tricks of other curly girls. Now that I’m in the know, my hair is much more low-maintenance than when I was straightening it. Though Lily and Steve might tell you otherwise after my repeatedly admonishing, “Back up! Don’t touch my hair when it’s wet!” or “There is no play brushing/romantically running your fingers through curly hair!” Because, you know, the “f” word. Which, when it happens, is usually followed by THE “f” word.

Up until about six years ago, I had never seen The Nutcracker. I didn’t even know much about it other than it was a popular Christmas-time ballet. Then Steve’s Goddaughter joined the cast of a show put on by her ballet company, and we were invited. Steve and I are not fans of the ballet, but actually love plays and musicals, so we figured, What’s a little ballet thrown in gonna hurt? A few scenes in, I was confused. Wait. They don’t talk At ALL? Not one word is said throughout the ENTIRE SHOW? And so, except for the parts Steve’s Goddaughter was in, we were bored out of our minds. Like I said, not fans of ballet. Or of shows where no one says a word for two hours straight.

Steve’s Goddaughter has been in the show every year since. We skipped the third year, but was lured back the fourth year because her brother got cast as the Nutcracker. We skipped the fifth year, but was drawn back this year because their younger brother–MY Godson, joined the cast. This family has a fourth child who will probably join the cast in a year or two, and my daughter will likely jump on the bandwagon since she is obsessed with being a ballerina. This Nutcracker thing has become an accidental holiday tradition.

This year I went to the show solo. Steve and X hit their ballet limit and so I took one for the team. Somehow, this year wasn’t too bad for me. Maybe because I appreciate the arts more these days. Or maybe because between the three of them, these kids were in practically every scene. I actually enjoyed most of the show. But whenever it got a little slow for me, my mind wandered aimlessly.

Now, you would think that at thirty-seven I’d be more mature than my seventeen-year-old son who smirks anytime he hears the word “balls.” But I’m not. I just don’t know how those guys stand wearing those tights. They’re basically wearing pantyhose. I wonder if anyone else gets as distracted as I do. I’m not being a pervert, I’m just sayin’, some tan Shakespearean culottes would work just as well. Also? When the ballerinas are lifted up by their armpits, I can’t help but wonder if those guys ever get grossed out. I mean, aren’t the girls’ armpits all sweaty from the dancing? But I do envy those lifts. I wish Steve could just throw me up and carry me on one shoulder like that. I’m about fifty pounds away from that ever happening.

I like to think that I’m cultured and artsy. But I guess there’s a seventeen-year-old boy in all of us.

P.S. Do you know how hard it is to refrain from saying “balls” when you’re living with a toddler??

So, it’s my birthday today. I thought that as I got older, birthdays would be less and less exciting. And to a certain extent, they are. I don’t count down the days like I used to or wait in antsy anticipation for birthday gifts or cake. But somehow, once the actual day comes around, I find I have an extra spring in my step and twinkle in my eye. We don’t have anything big planned for my birthday, just a quiet dinner with my husband and kids, but somehow I still feel like it’s an exciting day. Maybe it’s the tons of texts and Facebook messages–must be the mojo of being in so many people’s thoughts for a day.

I ain’t gonna lie, though…I’m feeling kind of old. I’m not one who would ever consider botox or a facelift or whatever the female equivalent is of a fifty-year-old man buying a Ferrari. But I am one who might have a teensy little midlife crisis. I don’t know. I’m thirty-seven! That feels so freakin’ old! I’m three measly years away from the Big 4-0 and that’s just crazy talk.

When I look in the mirror, I don’t feel like I look thirty-seven. I do, however, notice that my body has been a little creakidy lately. Like, sometimes when I walk, my knee will make a squeaking noise. And no amount of twisting, wiggling, lunging or karate chopping makes it go away. And these days, when I roll over in bed, I can actually hear each vertebrae in my back clicking into place. It startled me the first time it happened. So I started rolling over really slowly cuz I’m not trying to pull any muscles like I do sometimes when I comb my hair. Yeah, I pull muscles now when I comb my hair. My body is becoming faulty. Although, it’s not entirely impossible that these things have less to do with old age and more to do with being out of shape.

I also notice that I’m starting to listen to the radio less and less and have taken to calling music “just a bunch of noise nowadays.” Since when did I start speaking old people talk? Next thing you know, I’ll be telling stories about “back in my day.” I used to sneak listening to 2 Live Crew and NWA on my Walkman when I was a teenager, and now I can’t stand it when Steve plays his rap music around me, with all its cussing and sex talk. I have to admit I do love me some Drake, though. And I have Nicki Minaj as my ringtone. Having Nicki Minaj as my ringtone is actually worse than being old. It’s being the lady who’s old but thinks she’s still young. I’m becoming That Lady.

But probably one of the clearest indicators of an impending mini midlife crisis is the fact that I take it as a personal affront whenever someone calls me “Ma’am.” Is that really necessary? Homegirl’s probably just being professional, but I’m looking at her like, Why you gotta be so mean? And you should see how happy I get when someone calls me “Miss.” That warrants a dollar bill kind of tip for the barista.

I try to soothe my bruised and graying ego by thinking of celebrities my age. Drew Barrymore, Jennifer Aniston, Gwyneth Paltrow, Jennifer Lopez. They all still look young and hip and sexy. (My brother likes to point out that anyone that uses the word “hip” is definitely old and likely not hip.) Seeing how fabulous they still are in their thirties and forties brings me some comfort, despite the fact that they look that way because they have trainers and great lighting and expensive clothes. But still, they make it seem like 40 is the new 30. Like they still have their whole lives ahead of them.

I think maybe I need to take a cue from these ladies. Maybe instead of having a midlife crisis at thirty-seven, I should get all dolled up and celebrate a great year accomplished and many great years ahead. I guess I can fend off the meltdown for a couple more years. Or, at least until after the cake tonight.

I just got a letter in the mail informing me that I’m being assigned a new gynecologist. Apparently the old one has moved on to greener pastures. (Ba dum bum.) This is upsetting news since any kind of change produces anxiety for a Crazy Town resident like me. But facing a new stranger all up in my lady parts? That’s a whole ‘nother level of crazy slash anxiety.

I remember my first appointment with the doctor formerly known as my gynecologist, way back in 2006. After the nurse took my blood pressure, she told me that my numbers were kind of high. So she took it again. Still high. She waited a few minutes and took it again. High. And after two or three more times, it was still high. She and the doctor were concerned. But when they ended up sending me down the hall to my regular doctor, the nurse there didn’t seem to think it was a big deal.

Nurse: They sent you down here for this? Your blood pressure is probably just a little high because you had to see the gynecologist. No woman likes to see the gynecologist.

Me: Yeah, that’s their theory too, but I guess they just want to make sure.

Nurse (looking over my paperwork): Wait, you have Dr. S?

Me: Yes.

Nurse: No wonder your blood pressure is high. He’s so cute! You’re a brave girl going to him. I wouldn’t be able to let him see me naked.

And that’s when I realized I had my own real life Dr. McDreamy.

Now, I get nervous seeing any doctor, dreamy or not. But seeing the gynecologist is the worst.  I mean, I’m bashful about changing in front of girlfriends. The thought of a near stranger being all up in my mix is kind of unbearable. It probably doesn’t help that they weigh you moments before you’re supposed to strip down. Great idea, guys. Tell me how fat I am then ask me to get naked. Or when McDreamy goes ahead and brings up something embarrassing, like the postpartum urinary incontinence I emailed him about. Um, can we not talk about this while I’m sitting in front of you with my ass sticking out the back of my hospital gown? Doesn’t he know I emailed him about it so we wouldn’t have to talk about it FACE-TO-FACE?

But after years under his care, I eventually got comfortable with my gyno. Well, as comfortable as you can get with someone who’s not your husband groping you while making small talk about the latest book you’re reading. And now, not only am I losing my own real life McDreamy, but I have to face a new someone who’s not my husband all up in my biz. But this story has a happy ending for at least one person. Steve is relieved the new doc is female. He was starting to take it personal that I would shave my legs for McDreamy but never for him.

Did I ever tell you about the time my boss found my blog?

So I sent an email to my boss. When she responded, I scrolled down through the email thread to refresh my memory on a few points, when I saw a link to one of my blogs randomly sitting amidst the back and forth replies. My mind screamed out WTF?! and I had a mini heart attack. And then proceeded to full on panic mode. How in the world did that get on there?? Oh my gosh, please tell me she didn’t notice it. Tell me she didn’t notice it! She didn’t notice it. She would have mentioned something, right? She totally didn’t notice it. I convinced myself that she didn’t notice the link, but still sweated it out for a few days until I eventually forgot all about it.

Then one day I was at a work thing, chatting with her about this and that.

Boss Lady: So, I read your blog.

Blink. Blink blink.

Cue nervous laughter.

Me: You did?

Boss Lady: Yeah, I thought you were trying to show me something. I thought you were linking to something having to do with your presentation.

And cue guilty rambling.

Me: Oh my gosh no I don’t know how that got there it wasn’t in the sent message but then I saw it in your response and I was like “how did that get there” and I have no idea how that got there but I totally didn’t mean to send that link to you.

Boss Lady: Well, I read through some of it…

Me: Shoot me now.

Boss Lady: What was that?

Me: Huh? Oh, nothing.

Boss Lady: Anyway, I’m totally with you.

Me: You are?

Bossy Lady: Right there with you.

Me: Really? Cuz I feel like you’re totally gonna fire me. Since that blog is about having a fickle faith. And I work at your Catholic school. And I’m your Religious Activities Coordinator. I would totally fire me.

Except I didn’t actually say that last part because I’m not trying to give her any ideas. Also, I don’t think I deserve to be fired. Secretly and unfairly judged perhaps, but not fired.

Lesson learned: anything you write on the internet can and likely will be read by the very person you hope doesn’t read it.

Me: “And at last I see the light, and it’s like the fog has lifted…”

Him: Hehehe.

Me: What’s so funny?

Him: You’re singing off key.

Me: Yeah, and? I don’t know how to sing. You act like you just met me.

Him: Sometimes you sing on key.

Me: I do? I don’t even know what singing on key sounds like.

I really don’t.

My family is full of great singers. Every Thanksgiving Mama broke out the Christmas carol booklets and we all gathered around the piano as Uncle Tim led us through song after song to kick off the holiday season. It’s actually one of my favorite childhood memories. That, and the countless nights at Mama’s house trying to perfect “Strangers in the Night” on the Minus One all by my lonesome in a dim livingroom. Now that I think about it, it sounds kind of depressing, but what else is a tween gonna do on a Saturday night at her grandma’s house? Besides watch the “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” video on MTV, which is my third favorite childhood memory. I don’t know why my memory clings onto that particular video. Probably because I, too, wanted to dance with somebody. With somebody who loved me.

Anyway, the singing. Everyone had a good singing voice, especially my twin cousin. My cousin and I were inseparable. We wore the same clothes, fixed our hair the same way, both loved to write, produce and act out little skits we put on for our siblings. And we both loved to sing. We were twins in every way, except in this. The whole family always raved about what a beautiful voice she had, and teased me for how off key I always was. All in good fun, of course. It’s always good fun when you’re not the one being ridiculed. Then they would try to help me by telling me to plug one ear so I could hear myself sing. So I plugged one ear, and then was like, What? What am I supposed to be hearing? How is this supposed to help? It didn’t help at all. I just kept singing off key, but now with a finger jabbed into one of my ears. And nothing has changed all these years later. Whenever I try to describe a song to someone, and they say, “Sing it for me,” I break out in a cold sweat because I know it’s not gonna be pretty. After I squeak out the song, they’re like, What the? Then someone else will sing it, and all of a sudden it’s, “Ohhhhh, that song!” Then everyone looks at me like, Please don’t ever sing again, sweetie.

But I really truly love to sing.  So when I’m alone singing along to my iPod, I totally get all Mariah Carey with it. And in my head I sound AWESOME.