It’s so easy to get sucked into this material world. The world of bigger, better, newer. It’s so tempting to always want more and it’s so hard to ask yourself, “do I really need it?”

I have a friend who has sold her soul to stuff. She constantly wants and everything revolves around name brands. She has to live in the best part of town, her kids have to wear all the designer cloths, she has to drive a big name car. She asks first where your outfit came from before she decides if it is nice or not. She complains about how much she spends a month but is horrified when I suggest a less expensive alternative. “My husband would never wear shoes from Nordstrom. He only wears Ferrigamos.” She is never satisfied. She is only impressed by the price tag and the name brand and the image. I watch her in her quest for stuff and I have to shudder in part revulsion and fear because sometimes I see myself for her.

I don’t want to sell my life for money. I don’t want to spend nine hours of my day just so I can go out on a weekend and buy more stuff that I’ll never use and never be satisfied with. I don’t want to drop my kids into daycare when they are 6 weeks old. Money is great. You can get a lot of things with it, but I would rather have my time and my sanity than a stressed out life. But it is so tempting and it is so hard to be happy with what you have.

She saw my house and turned up her nose. “How can you live here?” she asked me in horror. “What is it, under 1500 square feet? I could never stand a kitchen that small. I need at least 3,000 square feet you know.” And I found myself blindly agreeing with her that yes, my kitchen was way too small and I couldn’t wait to move somewhere bigger. But after she left, I had to ask myself, why do I need a bigger kitchen? I mean, mine works just fine. It has all the appliances. Sure, it doesn’t have the island or miles of counter space but it suits my lifestyle. I mean, really, it is enough.

So now when I talk to her, I use it as a sort of grounding test. I watch her scramble through her life of image is everything and I chant to myself, “that is what I don’t want to become.” I love coming home and eating dinner with Kevin. I love playing with my dog and loving the cats. I love having weekends free to just enjoy. I don’t ever want to give those things up for more money. It just wouldn’t be worth it. So I guess that means I’ll never work at some swanky big firm or live in a 3,000 square foot house with a kitchen island, or have a prestigious zip code.

But you know what? That’s just fine with me.

It is my belief that every girl growing up wishes she had different hair. It’s some sort of teenage rite of passage. Girls with thin straight hair long for thick curls, those with thick curly hair would do anything for smooth straight tresses. I, too, suffered through this strange phase. I remember spending hours and hours pouring over teen magazines, thumbing through articles on how to make my thick unruly hair straight and sleek. I tried every technique and gel with no success. The sad truth was that I would never have straight thin hair but I refused to believe this incontrovertible fact. This bizarre desire continues to haunt me and has caused me no end of suffering as you will see.

While my idea of perfect hair has not changed, the source of my infatuation has. Instead of teen magazines, I am drawn in by television. Almost every show on today has women with long, straight, shiny hair. After spending an hour or two watching prime time TV, I somehow manage to convince myself of two very dangerous facts.

First, that the style worn by the TV actress would look good on me and second (but perhaps more dangerous) that I can cut this style myself.

And so at the end of the show, filled with some strange sense of purpose, I grab my hair scissors and head into the bathroom to recreate the style as seen on TV. These are very dangerous words – as seen on TV – in any context. For some reason, the kitchen cleaner or vacuum sealing bags when shown in the 30 minute infomercial look wonderful. But once they arrive on your doorstep, you find yourself wondering what on earth possessed you to order them. With products, this is easily remedied with a quick trip to Goodwill or (in our case) a new auction on ebay. However, things are much different with hair.

I mean, really, a TV show is nothing more than a 30 or 60 minute infomercial. They are selling the clothing, and the make up, and the furnishing, and (in my particular case) the hairstyles. By the end of the programming, I have been convinced that I, too, need to have Rachel’s snazzy new hair cut or Buffy’s perky little bangs. Instead of reacting like a normal woman and making an appointment with a hair stylist, I take matters into my own hands. I think this is because I want it now and I don’t want to wait until next week for an appointment. Whatever the reason, about once every few months, I wander into the bathroom with a pair of scissors and the best of intentions.

The results are quite comical. So much so that my girlfriends at work have decided that certain shows are off limits to me and my impressionable hair. The real difficulties lies in the fact that I’m always coveting hairstyles that only work if you have straight, thin hair. That and the sad reality that I am not qualified to cut hair.

Anyway, waiting for Kevin last night, I flicked on the TV and there was a re-run of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. This show is on my list of things-my-too-impressionable-mind-cannot-watch but I got sucked into it anyway. Not the plot or the acting so much as Buffy’s hair. In this particular re-run she had these cute little bangs. Now, for those of you who aren’t Buffy fans, she has long, straight, blond hair. As most of you know, I have crazy, thick, brown hair. I don’t think any further explanation is necessary. Lets just say I woke up this morning wondering what happened to my hair. Then I remembered.

The TV show. The scissors.

Thank goodness hair grows quickly.

The question over donuts at the office this morning revolved around Valentine’s Day. We all went around sharing what we were going to get the sig. fig. in our respective lives. When it was my turn, I was truly stumped.

I’m not getting Kevin anything for Valentine’s Day. Never have, probably never will. I’ll go even one step farther and let you in on another secret as well. I’ve never bought him an anniversary present either.

What’s that you’re calling me? Cold, heartless, bitc— Um, excuse me. My mother may read this. Lets keep the language out of the potty thank you very much.

Now, before you judge me, let me explain. I believe that Valentine’s Day and anniversaries are a chance for my sig. fig. to express how happy and thankful he is that I’ve deemed to stay with him another year. I figure the fact that I said yes and went through with the whole “do you Christine, take this man…” ritual carries over from year to year to year. Valentine’s Day and anniversaries are sort of “get out of jail free” cards for Kevin. A chance to score some brownie points for later down the line. So that during early March, when he really sticks his foot in his mouth, he can say, “but I bought you that great Valentine’s day present, remember?” The glory of the present dictates how many times he can use this as an excuse. A good present and he can trade off that karma for months. Not so hot present, and he’s sunk by the end of spring.

I thought this was how things were done everywhere. I had no idea that for some people, the woman buys the man presents. What a scary thought. What’s the world coming to, I ask you?

I’ve started watching Ally McBeal reruns late at night. I never really liked this show but I’ve somehow gotten sucked into it. Anyhow, I think it’s rubbing off on me because I had this strange theme song playing through my head all day.

Certain songs are tied to people or places for me. When I hear them, I’m teleported through time and I’m back somewhere in my past with that particular song defining the moment. Today, for whatever reason, I’ve had the song Fool in the Rain by Led Zepplin in my head. I’m not a big Led Zepplin fan, I haven’t listened to this song in years but today, for whatever reason, it’s been my theme song.

Well there’s a light in your eye that keeps shining
Like a star that can’t wait for a night
I hate to think I’ve been blinded baby
Why can’t I see you tonight
And the warmth of your smile starts a-burnin’
And the thrill of your touch gives me fright
And I’m shaking so much, really yearning
Why don’t you show up, make it all right, yeah, it’s all right, all right

And suddenly, I’m back in highschool. I’m at home in our kitchen with Steve and we are making fortune cookies. I’m not sure why we decided to do this, but I suppose I found some recipe about it and so we spent a Saturday afternoon writing silly fortunes for our friends and teachers, then folded them into a pastry dough and cooking them. If I remember right, they turned out truely inedible. He did, however, bring over a mixed tape for me. (Yes, this is back in the day when we used to listen to cassette tapes. It was a given that you’d make a mixed tape for your girlfriend. Some sort of teen age rite of passage I think.) I remember that one side was a best of Pink Floyd and the other was the best of Led Zepplin a la Steve. I hadn’t really heard that much from either group so it was all pretty much new to me. But Fool in the Rain just jumped out at me. It was one of those songs that clicked.

This may be a bit silly but bear with me.

I remember that after Steve left, I ran into the living room and turned up the volume. (Where were my parents? I have no idea but for some reason I was on my own with no one to complain about my crazy music.) He had left behind this green knit sweater and I found it. I then proceeded to dance around the kitchen with this sweater doing my best to sing along at the top of my lungs. I so remember this it’s scary. Dancing and singing and just being so happy and giddy that I felt like I would burst.

I have no idea what happened to that tape but today that song just came back to me. Maybe I heard it on the radio or someone was humming it – I really don’t know. But as I was walking down the street to lunch, I found in pounding through my head. I found myself walking to its beat and smiling. Some of my giddiness must have slipped out because people kept smiling at me. One young man even tried to strike up a conversation with me, saying I had a great smile and asking what was making me so happy. I wanted to tell him it was my theme song but I was afraid he’d think I was a bit looney.

Of course, he wouldn’t be that far from the truth, would he?