A Single Gray Hair

I am currently staying in a house that is filled with curio cabinets of memories, knick-knacks, photos, and stories of progeny and posterity. It's statistically perfect, everything every Good Housekeeping magazine has ever told any woman they should want.

When I moved from Minnesota, a few people said to me, in their good-byes, "I hope you find what you are looking for" What a funny phrase. It always threw me a little to hear it, because I didn't know I was supposed to be looking for something. Some of them said it in the obvious "wink-wink" style, as if I should know exactly what they thought I should be looking for. Where do they get to decide what it is I should be looking for? And some said it in a very concerned way, obviously trying to convey love and without any presumption as to my own goals in life. And some said it simply in a resigned and dissapointed tone of voice, as if I should have already found it, but had failed and was taking a cheap escape route. (Is it supposed to be easier to find IT in Utah?)

Ever since, I have found myself wondering what it is that I am looking for. Or even more, what it is that I am supposed to be looking for. I already know the cultural and obvious answer, I am spending a week at Grandma's house, attending a family wedding, it's hard to miss that expectation. And I am amused that so many people think that they: A. know what is wrong with me and B. somehow are entitled to the revelation that a husband would fix it.

But I am entitled to personal revelation, so I continue to ask the real question, "What am I looking for?" And I am continually presented with all sorts of potential responses. I can quilt and crochet with the best of them, but is that what I want a future filled with? I am glad for the people that have that dream and that work towards that future. The fact that I do not want it does not in any way lesson it's value. It just means I don't want it. And I don't want to travel the world and fill my house with fantastic photos and empty experiences. And I don't want huge piles of money and bottomless bank accounts. And I don't want the perfect thin and beautiful persona. And I don't want a $300 haircut and I don't want a pony and I don't want a Barbie dreamhouse or pink convertable. This is the kind of tantrum you didn't expect to hear...

The fact is, I want a good job that pays the bills. I want a car that gets me places like work and the store and friends houses and the occasional road trip. I want a few really close friends that know me well enough to know when to call, and that feel close enough to talk to me about their problems. I want one or two friends that I can call anytime, day or night, when I am either anxious or happy, so I can share those moments with someone. I want to be able to eat ice cream without feeling guilty about counting calories or maintaining an unreasonable expectation of my physique. I want to hike on Saturday mornings and I want to sing when I feel like singing. I want to have shelves and shelves of books in my room, so that I can fall asleep reading a different classic every night. And I want enough flexibility to be able to change and grow when I am ready for it.

Why do I have to be looking for something? Is there a rule that states that I can't be happy with my life exactly the way it is? Who decided I wasn't happy here, like this? It wasn't me. I didn't tell myself to go looking for something. I am only questioning it because so many seem to think I should be frantically searching. Which all leads me to what I did find.

It was just the root. (Of course, it would be, since I color my hair.) It was right smack dab in the center of the very top of my head. One quarter inch of shiny silver, glistening from the bathroom mirror. I have always suspected that it would happen fairly early for me. My mom doesn't have any grey hair. My sisters were all blessed with fabulous red like my mom, the kind that won't go grey until they are called to be temple workers at the age of 70, and then it will appropriately turn a nice silver or white. Well, except for the brunette sister who gets to spend her life with an actual distinct shade of brown with just enought red so it shows up in photos and sunshine. But I got the ditchwater hair (that holds a curl quite nicely, unlike red hair), and have nursed it with haircolor from a bottle since I went to college and learned that that is what Grandma Pratt always did. We even discussed colors and brands. And we never knew when she went gray, because she always colored it. So I am not sure that I was surprised to find a gray hair. It coincided with attending the family wedding, and with a long drive that gave me enough time to question myself. I got different hair than my sisters. Not better, not worse, just different. I've got different hopes than people think I should have. Not better, not worse, just different. What am I searching for? Absolutely nothing. What do I want out of life? Exactly what I have. Anything more is bonus. Where do I want to be when I am old and grey? I'll let you know when I get there.