This may sound crazy, but I think the thing I miss most about my childhood home is this bathroom mirror.
OK, I know it sounds crazy.
I have my reasons.
They aren’t good, but they’re there.
This mirror (that I hadn’t named before right now but have just decided needs a name) is called Rhiannon.
Sorry laptop. You can be named PJ.
(My laptop was previously named Rhiannon after the Stevie Nicks song. Are you following?)
(My laptop is now named PJ after PJ Harvey. Are you still following? Have you stopped following my blog altogether?)
Rhiannon is a great mirror. Rhiannon is the mirror I sat in front of as a teenager and learned to pluck my eyebrows with. It’s the mirror I used when I went through that bad over-plucking stage when I was 17, and the mirror I’ve been using to recover from that nightmare ever since.
It’s the mirror that means home.
I’ve never found a mirror I’ve liked so much, or a mirror and lighting combination that has worked so well for me. Seriously, every time I get into town and go into the bathroom, Rhiannon reveals secrets about me and my eyebrows that my other, lesser mirrors never told me.
I got into Utah Monday morning at 3:30AM and as soon as I saw Rhiannon it was decided sleep wasn’t that important. Eyebrows were.
And so I found myself sitting on the ground in the middle of the night, tweezers in hand, feeling perpetually 17.
I’m perpetually 17 when I’m at home. It’s the sleigh bed and the museum to my past selves. It’s the people who knew me at 17. It’s the fact that I’m always a bit 17 and maybe always will be. That might just be my age.
I have a friend who’s always a bit of a 13-year-old and I mean that in the loveliest of ways.
I am always a bit 17.
I debated coming home for Spring Break this year. I think there reaches a point where your new life and new home sound better to you than your old one. Where it’s easier to stay where you are. You don’t want to mess up your routine. You like your routine.
You like where you are.
I’m at that point with LA.
Honestly, the past few weeks have been a total haze of crazy. I have several super angsty blog posts in my Drafts that will never see the light of day, but which outline the increasingly downward spiral of my mind in the past month.
One such post is titled “Sylvia Plath Mode” and details why I think Sylvia understands me like no one else in the world ever has.
I read it to Hilary and even she commented on the drama. And Hilary is Miss 200% Supportive.
The post also talked about how I once named a fictional feminist girl band The Sylvia Plaths, and I really wanted to get that one into a post so here you go.
I once named a fictional feminist girl band The Sylvia Plaths.
Let’s just say it’s been a crazy month.
As I was finishing up some of the things that were making me crazy last week, I wondered if it was really the right time to go home. I have a lot to do. I haven’t been in any sort of a routine. Maybe 20 hours in a car in one week was a bad idea.
And then Sunday afternoon I thought, “Nope. Best idea I’ve ever had. See you soon, Utah” and yadda yadda yadda here I am on my high school sleigh bed in Utah typing this at 2:00AM.
Also, I’m going skiing in a few short hours.
I wonder if I’ll ever have a routine.
I’m not really sure where this blog post is headed at this point, so before it spirals off somewhere weird(er), I have to say, I’m so glad I came home.
I’m so glad I’m spending this week with Rhiannon and friends and family. I already feel rejuvenated. I already feel like more myself.
Rob once asked me why I don’t blog more in Sylvia Plath mode and I think there are a few reasons for this, but the main one is when I’m in Sylvia Plath mode I feel very helpless and words escape me when I’m so out of control.
My words are coming back to me already.
I can feel it.
It’s good to be home.