I wanted to cut my hair short, short, short since I was 12. Actually, I DID it when I was 12, and I hated it. I got it cut in the summer to match my new lime Popsicle colored bathing suit. Short hair begs for swimming. When I went back to school, the Pretty Girls had long hair. They had it before, but now I noticed it, and I also noticed that I was not being noticed. I hated my hair for it. At age 25, I came full circle because who wants to deal with hair during yoga and early mornings and EVER? I fully expected to hate it again, and I told myself I didn’t care, and my mom, knowing me all too well, cautioned me not to believe what I see in the mirror and to remember that short hair exudes confidence. And it turns out, it does. And actually, I do believe what I see in the mirror, because finally, I like it.

Everyone who will listen knows the story of quitting the job that made me miserable. I was miserable enough that I have no qualms about broadcasting it on the internet, evidently. The job and my manager and my depression made me miserable and no paycheck is enough to compensate for sitting at a desk with the mantra, “Iwillnotcryatwork, Iwillnotcryatwork, Iwillnotcryatwork.” I didn’t quit sooner because I worried about my resume and my finances and my insurance. When I finally started worrying about ME, I quit. My resume and my finances didn’t suffer. I used the last of my insurance coverage to get the golden Rx for Zoloft, and when I no longer had insurance and no one would give me insurance, I learned all about what healthcare should be. And then I got a job in what healthcare should be.

I could have very easily regretted bungee jumping at Ft. Walton Beach, but I don’t think I realized that beforehand. Same with trespassing in various areas of my college, sometimes topless, because things can go wrong with that. Then there were the times when I confronted sleazy guys at concerts. The first time it happened, it was a success, which empowered me to do it again at Radiohead. I feared for my life a little bit that time, but it never got to the point of regret.

It didn’t occur me until recently that I could have regretted dropping out of grad school. It just felt so right. What I thought I would regret was sacrificing a 4.0 in college in favor of late night movies, concerts, dates, pranks, baking and message boarding. Now, I think that every grade point that was knocked off by those activities makes me a little bit more interesting.

And speaking of interesting, my hips are. I honestly thought that the only way to make them go away was to hate them. To like them would be absurd and they would know it and they would grow and grow and grow. What they did, though, was stay exactly the way they were, only they were happier and I’m happier, and if they grow, so what? It’s nice to be able to say that.