I love being home over break. I love being home over break because I get to see my family and friends from a formative in my life. I spend much of my time at home (when I actually interact with other humans) with my family and our family friends.
The last time I was home was no exception to this rule. I found myself at various family gatherings: Sunday dinner, after church brunch, and many other mundane family events. But this break I finally felt like a real bona-fide adult. Well, as close as a college student who lives in a dorm can come to being a bona-fide adult. My family members were treating me like an adult and including me in the family and adult-friend gossip. I was thriving. This was the exact treatment I had been lusting after for the past five or so years. I was not sure why this shift occurred after my third semester of college, but I figured it had something to do with the fact that I've started wearing more jeans and less leggings. My family will never consider leggings pants.
So there I was, basking in the newly-minted adult light when my mom invited me to go to a jewelry party my aunt was hosting (think LuLaRoe, but the jewelry version). My sister was invited too, so my promotion did not play a role, and I instinctively agreed to go. I do not tend to say no to family gatherings. They're kind of my schtick. Someone has to be the funny person, and I like to consider myself the perfect person to fill that role.
The Saturday morning (my version of morning being 10:00am) of the jewelry party I grabbed some of my new makeup I got from the Target clearance bin the day before and my new shirt from the Primark in Berlin (I had just gotten home from a J-Term spent in Germany). And then I dug through my dirty laundry bin to find my trusty pair of high-waisted jeans. The whole ensemble probably costed a whopping total of 12 dollars. I take my appearance very seriously, as any bona-fide adult should.
After I took a whole ten minutes getting ready for the day I sat myself down in my favorite recliner and began scrolling through Twitter until my mom told me it was time to leave while commenting that were were "only going to a jewelry party, why do you have lipstick on?". I found myself riding in the backseat of my mom's van because my 16 year old sister called shotgun first. Only a mature adult wouldn't pull the seniority card for shotgun on their younger sibling.
When we got to the jewelry party I pretended to be involved in the jewelry that I could not afford. The highest priced item was 35 dollars, who did they think I was? A millionaire? But eventually I situated myself by the snacks. It was the perfect place to observe the rest of the adults and my kid sister and keep an eye on who was coming and going. Ever since becoming an adult people-watching has become one of my favorite hobbies.
As I was picking my way through the vegetable platter my old, favorite, art teacher came in and came straight to me for a hug. Of course I obliged, and was surprised to see her making a funny face as we pulled away from the hug. I was not sure what was going on, but have learned through my extensive adult experience sometimes asking is the worst thing you can do.
But, lo and behold, I did not even have to ask. Because as soon as she realized I noticed her face she said something along the lines of:
"Do you know you have dip in your hair?"
For some reason this caused the chit-chatting middle-aged women and my teenage sister to hush and look over at me with laughter in their eyes and laughter in general once they saw what my art teacher saw.
I reached up and felt my hair and eventually found the culprit: the hummus that sat in the middle of the vegetable platter.
"Oh, honey, it's fine." My mom said laughing and grabbing the chunk of hair with dip in it. This action ultimately shattering my false sense of adulthood and shooting me back to the level of non-adult. Upon transforming back to a non-adult I allowed to roll my eyes. I was exposed, they knew I had no clue how to do taxes or hook up cable to my TV, why act like I did anymore?
And then my art teacher, the culprit of my fall from adulthood, said something that planted a seed in my head: "You should star a blog called "How Did I Get Dip In My Hair?". I'm fairly sure she was not serious, but lately I have been searching for a creative outlet completely dictated by me and my hot-mess experiences as a college student.
And, thus, a blog was bron.
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