It’s Sunday.

For some reason Sundays are never days of rest for me, even though I have this sense that they probably should be. Truth told I don’t rest very well. I have a difficult time sitting still during the day. Occasionally when it is dark and stormy out and there is a chilly wind blowing the rain against the windows I can find it in myself to curl up in a chair and burrow into a blanket and a book. But otherwise I seem to be moving full speed ahead all of the time, and weekends, even Sunday, are no exception.

Today’s mission was to go to Ikea and get some organizational things to outfit my new writing desk and get myself back in order and knowing where things are. One must be prepared for Ikea on weekend. There are sure to be five million people there, no place to park, and the only baskets left will be the weird ones with the wheels that all veer left and cause you to have to use all the muscles on that side of your body to counter act the baskets unending quest to knock into the person next to you.

Speaking of people. I don’t know about other places, but here in the Austin area Sunday seems to be the day when people who like to go against the grain all meet at Ikea and do their best to drive all of us rule followers insane.  If you’ve been in an Ikea once you know that there is a flow and you follow the flow and maybe you take one or all of the short cuts in order to speed your trip, but you still follow the flow and you do not, under any circumstances, swim up stream. You do not come in and go through the Ikea maze backwards. You just don’t. Or at least you don’t without being severely judged by every single person you pass who is following the unspoken Ikea rules of conduct and going the right direction.

After facing the crowds  and the rebellious rule breakers I found myself in line, all of my organizational aids in tow and ready to get the hell out. It was in the extremely long line waiting to check out when I looked up and realized that everywhere I looked there were bearded men my age. EVERYWHERE.

It seems like the whole beard thing is a new thing, or at least it seems that way at first, but I’m beginning to think that perhaps it’s just the thing that men my age do? I’m not sure, all I know is that once upon a time when I was a much younger girl I hated facial hair on a man. It just creeped me out. But now, in my 30’s, it seems that facial hair has grown on me. Well… not actually grown on me (thank God!), but you know what I mean. I suddenly see men with beards and think, “look at him, he’s a grown up.”

Make no mistake, I’m under no delusions that suggest that a man who can grow a beard is mature and capable of good conversation. A beard is not a sure sign of a man work spending time with. I just think it’s interesting that after years of detesting them, suddenly I start to find them oddly attractive.  Huh.

 

 

 

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