I made a terrible discovery on Monday morning.

On Saturday, the idea of bacon and eggs for breakfast sounded pretty good. I was a Central Market with Sterling, and I was all, "Bacon! Bacon sounds good. I should buy bacon, and have it with eggs!" And on Monday morning, to celebrate the fact that it was a holiday and I didn't have to go to work, I made bacon and eggs.

Bacon is fun to cook. You lay it in the pan, and it sizzles, and then you flip it over when it gets brown. And the coating of grease makes making eggs a total snap--they just slide around in the pan, without even pretending to try to stick.

So I made bacon, and slid it onto some paper towels to drain while I scrambled a couple of eggs. Then I sat down with my cholesterol-ridden breakfast. All was well, right?

One problem.

I actually don't like bacon.

I discovered this about halfway through my second piece of bacon, and I thought that's funny, I don't think I like this. I kept munching, though. Maybe I would like it better a few bites from now? It's happened before.

By the time I'd finished that slice, I'd figured out that I don't really like bacon. I dislike its saltiness, the grease, the lack of substance. I can't ever remember really liking bacon, actually. But everyone around me loved bacon. Bacon was a treat. Bacon was meat candy. How could you not love bacon?

For some reason, I don't. I never have. And it took me 28 years to figure it out, 28 years of eating bacon because everyone else seemed to love it.

I feel kind of dumb, actually. I've been eating this stuff that I secretly hated for years because it never occurred to me that I could dislike it.

This really rather handily sums up what's been happening to me for the past few months. Finally figuring out that it's okay not to like certain things.

That it's okay not to be what's expected, and that, especially, it's okay not to be exactly what other people want. Even if they want you to be something really, really hard, even if their whole existence seems to be dependent on you being what they want you to be.

I tried to feed the leftover bacon to the cats, and they turned their little pink noses up at it. I ended up throwing it away.

That same Saturday that I was with Sterling at the Central Market, I went and had a pedicure.

We were talking online, and she mentioned that the Gene Juarez in Bellevue rocked, and that she'd been ordered to get rid of her claws that day. I called, and they had one manicure/pedicure appointment open. She got the manicure, and I got the pedicure. I couldn't resist the thought of getting my toes all prettied up.

So, we went to the grocery store, and mailed off a package, and then hit the spa. I got whisked away into a little room with a big chair in it. The woman who was in charge of my feet had me take off my shoes and climb up into the chair. My feet were soaked in a big bowl, music was turned on, and a lavender-scented beanbag was laid over my eyes. After that, I'm sort of fuzzy on the details of what happened. I know there was a scrub of some sort, and lotions of various kinds; there was toenail trimming and cuticle pushing and callous removal; there was a paraffin dip and then there was toenail painting. There was foot and leg massage in there, too.

45 minutes later, I walked out on two fluffy clouds that only vaguely resembled the wreck my feet had been when I walked in. My feet were sleek and decalloused. My toenails were perfectly painted a bright iridescent purple that looked good with the black sandals I was wearing. We went and had Thai food and talked and my feet continued to feel lovely all evening.

I'm glad resistance was futile. My bank account is not, but hey. Money is for spending, right?

And, finally, after all of my problems with my old car...I have a new one.

Meet Regina.



Of course, I still have Desdemona, and it's been a bit difficult trying to sell her. I haven't made a really comprehensive attempt yet--that will be this week, once I have the pictures of her I took yesterday edited and online.

But buying a new car was quite the experience. I knew what I wanted, had done extensive research about the cars and the dealerships, declined to go to the three dealerships that either blew me off or completely refused to answer my emails and phone calls, and ended up buying my car through the Costco car buying program from a woman seven years younger than me with a tongue piercing. She was very cool, and i'm happy to see a little bit of diversity in the car sales work force.

I'm happy with my purchase, and I'm looking forward to having my plates so I can go on a road trip. This weekend, I drove enough to get comfortable with the car; now, I want to hit the road, and go up to Vancouver or to the rain forest.

The open road, she calls.

(This has been an On Display collab entry, on the topic, "I just couldn't resist...". Well, at least the last two sections.)

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