The Great Fallout of Ott-twelve (Ott sounds better and more serious than Twenty)

I'd like to say a few words about hair. Because I've been obsessed with it lately and I think there's some deep-rooted reason why. See, I think I recently lost a gig because of my hair. No--not follicle discrimination like blond vs brunette--and not really a job-- more of an assignment. But before I  get to that--let me begin at the beginning, which also feels like the end.

For about a year I've been noticing the more-than-usual clumps of hair in the shower, on the floor, in my hairbrush. There's no question--my hair is falling out. And not because I have some rare, talk-show-attention-getting disease--no. I guess it's because I'm getting old. Google's top search results pretty much says women my age lose hair because of hormones. But what Google doesn't say--and Lynn wants to know is--when does this shit stop? I mean really. Enough already. There isn't enough, already.

Before the Fallout

Men like long, flowing, full hair. Not twelve strands pulled together to form a noodle-like ponytail. I'm losing so much--if you lift up what's left around my forehead--you'll see the holes. Aren't MEN supposed to deal with holes as they age? (don't answer that) Male pattern baldness? What kind of pattern is this? Except some wicked, F'ed up joke being played by someone upstairs on women my age everywhere. Especially SINGLE women my age. I mean, come on God--leave something up there? Someone's still gotta find me attractive? (And even though I'm into Yoga, I'd prefer they not be part of the Hare Krishna movement.)

It's stressing me out. And my hairdresser says stress makes you lose your hair too. Another vicious circle. Hormones. Stress. Fallout. Repeat. Make it stop please. I should cut it. Shorter hair looks fuller right? But then men don't like short hair--so not until I can snag another one with the thin mop. I'll just continue to look like an aging hippie aka: Gloria Steinem, thank you very much. I've been using hot rollers to curl the 12 noodle strands. Curls make them look fuller, right? But not only is it falling out--but my hair texture has changed too. The curls just fall into stringy-looking mink pelts. (Which WAS attractive back in Ott-twelve.) It's wiry. Frizzy. The beginnings of old lady Clampett's hair, soon to be in a bun.

And where, oh where, has the shine gone? One day I was looking like those Pantene commercials--but now? It's dull. Coarse. And don't even get me started on the color. Dying is rough on your hair and will make it fall out more. So you can HAVE more hair, but you have to have gray ones? More cruelty. How the hell do you deal with the gray? If it's falling out--I don't want to dye every 4 weeks. But if I don't--suddenly I'm Bea Arthur. (And I"m not even going to say anything about what other hair on my body is turning gray because that WILL and IS sending me over the edge when I think about being with a man again.)

The frequency women my age have to dye--is mean menopause trick #3. Because it costs a fortune. $100 every time. I've tried to buy a box of dye--and DIY it for $6.99. But I have long, dark hair. And a white bathroom. Inevitably I end up with what looks like a crime scene--dark smears on the white rugs, walls, towels--and last time I tried this--not sure how--it was on my toothbrush. So I'm back to the pros.

Now, about that gig I lost because of hair. A while back, I was at a meeting to discuss coverage of a movie festival that starts with Sun and ends with Dance. And was pretty excited about it--figuring I'd be the "correspondent" doing all the interviews--maybe get to meet Robert Redford? (definitely worth dying for.) But the meeting began by telling me, the "correspondent" would be a little late. Wait? I'm already here--right? Nope. It wasn't going to be me. And then it walked in. The correspondent, and her long, shiny, silky--THICK--hair. The kind that looks good even when you don't wash it, and wear it all piled up in a clip? The youthful hair got the gig. I immediately thought--Ah. I see. I'm old. I have thin hair that doesn't shine on camera in front of celebrities. She has no experience, but hot damn! What hair! You're done Lynn. Find a new job as an elementary school lunch lady and hide that crap under a shower cap for all eternity. (Or at least until the undertaker can work his wonders.)

My new glasses. (and hair?)

So what's a middle-aged single gal with lack-lustre hair to do? Buy exciting and interesting eye glasses so the attention moves downward. Right? Wrong. I normally buy the same eye glasses every time. Small frames. Black. Thin. So they don't look obvious. (That I'm blind.) But not this time. Note to self. Don't ever go pick out new frames when you're feeling bad about your age and your massive five-head. (forehead isn't big enough) Also another note to self? Don't pick out new frames when your eyes are still dilated. Result? I walked away with something large and BLUE. And wait for it...there's some kind of jewelry on the sides. So not only do I now look like Gloria Steinem with the hippie hair--but I'm starting to resemble Dame Edna as well. (Line right up boys!)

I never cared much about hair growing up. I was a bit of a tomboy--my mother forced me to get a "Twiggy" pixie cut from age 3-15. It was all the rage. (Okay maybe not for over a decade, but...) My hair never kept me from succeeding--I still made cheerleader--dated the homecoming king--got into UCLA--with normal looking--non-special hair. So now--what gives? Why make it all about the hair now? I looked around on the train home from work the other night. Young girls--long, full, hair. Washed or not washed. Styled or not styled. Didn't matter. Gorge. Women my age? All tried that day to style it, curl it, hat it. But thin. Wire. Holes. The opposite of Brooke Shields. (Who HAS to be getting near 50--is she wearing a wig?)

See? No hair. Okay!

I thought maybe writing about it would lessen the stress. But as I do, I run my hand through the few pieces I'm babying up front--and like the sounds of precious pine needles falling off Charlie Brown's little Xmas tree...I hear another few dates, I mean strands, falling to the floor. Anyone with good wig store suggestions for pale white girls, please leave a comment with address. *Sigh*

Change is the Only Constant

The old Greek dude who came up with that--clearly didn't have to pay $2400 a month for pink carpet and yellow Formica counters.

Throughout my life I've struggled with change. But really, who hasn't? And regardless of how many times you repeat it's "the only constant"-- It's still so damn hard!! We all want to hold on to something good, something we love or believe in. We'll even fight to hold on to something we only THINK is good. Or at least I do. Until recently, when I decided to change my fight against change--and totally implode my comfortable life in an attempt to unweave the past, and retread my future.

But now that I'm firmly floundering in the middle of my change mess--two months in--I'm seriously beginning to think Gandhi and that ancient philosopher with a name I can't pronounce-- were just assholes for making us believe. Maybe change isn't good? I mean, if it's the only thing you can depend on--like they said--why does it hurt so much? Shouldn't we shield ourselves from that? Stay the course! It's easy! It's familiar! Why change? Well I did. But now I'm thinking I bit off more than I can chew. Now I'm literally choking on change.

Before I tell you why I did this-- and stop speaking in code--I'm just curious. What was the last big change you consciously chose to make in your life? I’m not talking about the ones that are forced on you by fate or maybe this craptastic recession? I mean one you actually made a decision about, in an effort to push yourself forward? Was it a new hairstyle? As much as you loved that little last patch on your five-head, it was time to shave it off and boldly enter the world of male pattern baldness? (Positive Change.) Perhaps you got rid of all the clothes you haven’t worn in two years, and finally went out and bought fat pants that fit over the menopausal muffin top? (Necessary Change.) Switched from PC to Mac? (Cave to trend Change.) Whatever it was—I’m sure, the change wasn’t easy.  No I KNOW the change wasn't easy.

Recently, while sitting on my couch drinking yet another glass of watered-down Chardonnay,

(4 points) I decided it was time for a change. And nothing easy like the aforementioned hair cut--although now I kinda wish I had just gotten bangs. For the past several years, I've tried to hold on to something I probably shouldn't have. And it was constantly making me sad. So, this particular evening I decided that making one little change, at this stage of my life wasn’t enough. I decided to go for the total trifecta of life disruption. Quit my job. Pack up my house. And move out of the city that for the past six years, represented every hope and dream I ever had for what I believed to be happiness. (Hold for applause.)

Now don’t feel bad about only throwing out those size 6 jeans and telling people you’re making “change” and moving on--that's solid stuff. But what you're about to read is a cautionary tale of "Careful what you wish for" because it can all happen too quickly-- when maybe you're not ready for all that change Lynn you stupid, stupid girl who left her nice life because some guy didn't want her anymore? (oops did I write that out loud and without punctuation?) I digress. Sort of. If you’ve read any of my –oh—last 100 blog posts (I don’t have 100 blog posts but maybe you'll believe it) you’ve most likely read about my relationship and my temporary “McDonald’s” job—something I took until I could get another TV gig. IE: something I took to stay close to the guy who broke my heart because I still had hope that “maybe.”

Well that job and "maybe" wasn't cutting it for me anymore. I didn't fit in at McDonald's from the start. And while I had made lovely friends over the past six years, and adored my beautiful little house complete with ducky-filled park next door--I finally decided that staying stuck—as comfortable as it was—wasn’t the way to live my life. I heard myself secretly becoming one of those "why didn't that work out?" people. Sitting alone at home, waiting for the ex to get horny, nostalgic or both--and drop by for a "visit". So I quit “McDonalds”and pulled the plug on the Sacramento chapter—boxed it all up for greener—anythings. I didn't have a job lined up--I was ready to move home and just tough it out. Do a few producer gigs here and there--travel--bum off my sister and live in her Tahoe house. I had a plan. Well sort of. Not really. Just knew that I had to put myself in "harm's way" or risk becoming that lady with 25 cats and my own whiskers.

And just as I made this decision to pull up stakes and give my notice—magically, a job dropped into my lap. In the City I’ve been crying about returning to for the past six years. And this job isn’t at "McDonald's."  It’s with a major creative company. Doing video. No “burger flipping.” So sticking to my gut (wrenching) decision, that I need to rip myself away from the city I moved to for HIM--I took the job. And left. To live with my parents until I found somewhere to call home. Did I mention to live with my parents? Who are both in their seventies?

My first week at the (hesitant to say old) folk's home was rough. This wasn't my childhood home--thankfully. It's hard enough to move in with your parents at 49, I can't imagine having to go to sleep every night staring at my cheerleading trophies from 30 years ago. But this WAS where my much younger sister grew up. So instead of trophies--I am falling asleep looking at her Peter Pan and Annie collection combined with a pile of Cabbage Patch Dolls. On the wall to my right? A giant pink Swatch watch/clock. Don't ask. (or offer $ for it)

My parents are older--and my dad's health is not good. So when I get up at 5:30am--I try not to make any noise so they can sleep. None. Nada peep. But I need coffee. Because I'm not sleeping well in the bed that is not mine, surrounded by Phantom of the Opera posters. To make that coffee--I have to fill the pot and get out my cereal bowl the night before--and then quietly sneak down the stairs in the morning, in the dark without waking up my parents whose room is on the ground floor next to the kitchen. Now, this is not good news, for someone who just recovered from the worst sprained ankle known to bones. (read previous posts) I am pretty sure the other ankle is in jeopardy each time I carry my breakfast up stairs in the dark, quietly trying not to trip on my bathrobe or make the hardwood floors creak. 

I moved my mom's coffee pot into the pantry to cut down on pot gurgling noise and cereal pouring noise. So that one seems to be under control. But what wasn't under control was my laundry. My mother, bless her heart--kept asking me if she could do my laundry that was piling up. I said "No, no, I'll do that. I want to."  Coming home from my fourth day at work I had an episode--the exhaustion of the new job, the early mornings, the no sleep and the stress of leaving my life behind--were all getting the best of me. So was the All-Tempa-Cheer. As I walked into my sister's shrine--I mean room--It leaped out at me. Sitting on the bed was my laundry, neatly folded. I screamed "Mom did you do my laundry?" And then lost it. I cried for an hour. And not just weepy stuff. I was a heaving, slobbering, uncontrollable mess. I couldn't catch my breath. I thought I would throw up. And yes, I used the clean, folded towels on the bed to wipe it all away.

Now I know most of you would love to have your mother do your laundry. Especially those of you who no longer have their mothers around. Victoria and Lynn's Secret: I wasn't crying because she shrunk my bras or saw that I occasionally wear a thong--I was crying because I missed my life, so much. I missed my independence. I missed my house with my own washer--I missed my routine--and my friends and caring for myself. And yes--I even missed the guy who didn't miss me anymore. Had I made a mistake? Maybe I was okay with my life the way it was? Careful what you wish for!!! Be happy with what you have! (insert thunderbolt sound effects here)

The next morning, I tried to explain to my mom that I wasn't upset with her. But I hurt her feelings. She knows nothing different, than to care for her children. No matter how old they are. FF four weeks. I've been doing the job--coming home (?) and looking at Craigslist postings for overpriced boxes with pink carpet and yellow Formica. You'd be amazed what $2400 a month gets you--or in most cases doesn't get you in the Bay Area now. And it's competitive. Landlords only have to show an apartment for 30 minutes. And in those 30 minutes--there will be dozens of people all holding their folders of pre-filled applications and credit checks. I didn't know this either. I've seen about 10 places. And each of them has something wrong with them. Or maybe there's just something wrong with me.  Nothing compares to my cute little home in East Sac. A home I got a month-to-month lease on, because I was SO convinced I'd be moving in with Mr. Sacramento sooner, than later.  Look how well that change worked out?

I have twelve days before the movers have to take my stuff and put it SOMEWHERE. And I'm scared. Scared I won't find a place and I'll become "that" daughter who moved in with mom and dad and never dated again. I'm genetically predisposed for that type of shit. My dad's younger brother moved in with my grandpa--and never married. Which is why--today I decided to take a break from the online apartment search--and instead--switch to online dating. Seriously. Mr. Sacramento is happily dating a carbon copy of me and that's all it took to get me to change that one. Three years and one carbon copy later. 

Honestly--I think I'll have an easier time right now finding a husband than an apartment. I'm not stupid. Dudes have garages. I'm willing to put up with a little Monday Night Football--to have a place to park my car and unload groceries. Even if it means I gotta cook for them too. Kidding aside. I'm doing this because I'm lonely. Living with my parents, missing my friends, working in an uber-tech world where co-workers walk everywhere with their head in a laptop and have meetings via web cam--even if they're just down the hall from each other--I want to meet someone. And maybe that's finally the lesson of this change mess-- kicking in? One of the reasons I came to this changepiphany while sitting on my couch that night--I was lonely. Isn't it funny that while many things change--some things stay the same? Until you  make that choice.

A good friend called me this week to check on my apartment hunting antics. After listening to me cry about how hard it is--and saying I miss my old life and want to go back home--she said "You forget I heard the reverse whine for quite a while." And she's right. I said the same EXACT thing for the past 3 years about how I wanted to move home and find a better job. I'm glad she "reminded me" of that.  No matter how hard it is on me -- or my poor 71 year old mother. I made this happen. I chose this. And while it is really, really hard right now, I'm the one who quit her job in a downturn and got offered a groovy gig at a big tech firm. I wished for all of this to happen. So now--I gotta make it work. The silver linings have yet to show themselves--but I think they're coming. I hope they're coming. I'm getting tired of the clouds.

So yeah--be careful what you wish for. Some of us are lucky enough to maybe, have it all come true. Be ready when they "move the cheese." Or--just move it yourself because you DO deserve better. (I think that's Camembert right?) Change IS the only constant. Philosophic assholes. A warning label would have been nice. It may be the only constant--but it's gonna f*ck you up for a while. And take half your head of hair with it.

Even the Hoarders Date

Namaste Hernia--hello expensive Yoga studio! With the alleged "alien" gone, I went and plunked down $130 for a 10 class pass. Bummer that the only class on a holiday is something called "restorative yoga." I figured, it had been a while--because of the possible hernia- and I needed to get back into it NOW. So I tried it. But I'm not quite sure what exactly are you restoring, during this type of yoga? Restoring your grandfather's clock would have been a better work out. I know it's all about relaxing, replenishing, restoring your body and mind--but I have never been so bored--for $16 an hour--in my life.

I tried to relax--er restore--as we lay across bolsters and rolled up blankets. But my mind kept going back to how one of my ten classes was wasted on just laying there. And trying not to think. Which wasn't happening, because the blankets my face rested on were the same blankets you sit on during a normal sweaty yoga class. And yes, this one smelled like ass. Relax. Restore. Cleared that out, only to be replaced by the massage-therapist-yoga-teacher coming by and running her hands through my hair. NOW I could only think about, "did the person before me wash her hair?" Hands combing through. Relax. Restore.

I left with more on my mind than when I walked in. Not the goal of the class I think. It's one of the reasons why I started to take Yoga to begin with. To quiet my overactive mind. It serves me well in television--I get an idea a minute. But every other part of life, not so much. (Read previous post on CT scan results + Google= no sleep) So I came home and decided to run it off on my treadmill. The treadmill I bought ten years ago when I worked at TiVo and have lugged with me, half broken, from city to city. I can't really run on it anymore--only walk fast--because it will overheat and stop suddenly. Throwing me forward and wrenching my back. Ending up in traction is NOT one of the benefits of running on a treadmill. I should get rid of it. But I suppose --like the ex--something else  I have trouble letting go of.

As I walk fast--I channel surf. TV takes my mind off stuff. Not the meditation in the restorative Yoga class--but yes--"Hoarders!" That takes my mind off stuff. Until they show a woman who's house is a complete mess--but has a new boyfriend. What? Wow. Even the hoarders have dates. What's my excuse? I have a clean house. I could invite a date in without fear of anything but having to cook pasta again. But I don't date. How did the hoarder meet this guy? Did SHE lie on her Match.com profile?

And we're back. To the overactive noodle taking control. Maybe I"m obsessive. I clean too much. I can't throw out my half-broken treadmill. I still miss Mr. PP. I dont' like to put my face on ass blankets. Change the channel. Ah good. The Bachelorette? F it. Gonna give restorative yoga one more shot at it.