Suffocated by garden tools.

So I bought a house. It just sorta happened. I had been looking around just to gather information on the market, and what I wanted, knowing that I'll always be more of a house dweller than an apartment dweller and so would be wanting to buy shortly. Then I saw this one. And I really liked it. And it had everything I was looking for. And I thought about how, at the time, the only thing I was investing in was The World's Cutest Shoe collection and thought maybe a house might provide a better longterm return. And I think I needed some excitement in my (non-existent) life because I was working too much. So I bought a house. To keep myself from buying shoes, and instead of going to see a movie or taking up a cooking class. Perfectly valid reasons, no?

It happened very quickly. I started thinking about how I had only been here 10 months. And how I hadn't even been at my job a year. But I realized, it's not a husband or a kid - it's just a house. At the end of the day I can sell it and move on if something goes wacky. So I got excited about having a bbq, and that I could do my laundry whenever I want, and that now I could almost come up with a legitimate reason for buying a cordless drill.

But then, the other night I was out to dinner and the conversation turned to lawns and lawn tools. I will, of course, need a little lawnmower to cut my little yard, but that's cool because I'm excited about having a little yard. Then someone mentions a weed wacker. And I think about the fact that I could potentially need one. And I start to tense up. How did my life get to a point where all of a sudden I need a weed wacker?! What happened to wandering free? Keeping all options open and embracing the fact that, being on my own, with no ties, I can do whatever I want for the next couple years? Going through life with no longterm plan for the first time in 27 years? This is far too domestic. Far too "settled". I start to really question what I'm doing and if it's what I want. This weed wacker somehow represents a level of commitment for which I'm not sure I'm ready. Or want. Somehow, every part of me that is (and wants to remain) young and aimless and carefree feels like it's being trapped and shackled down by this weed wacker (that I don't even own yet). Sure if I want to up and leave I can sell the house, but what about the weed wacker?!?!

How is it that a big ticket item like a house causes me no concern, but a little weed wacker has me wanting to play runaway bride?

Buddy, you have way more grey than I do!

I remember the first time someone called me ma'am. I was in my early/mid twenties (maybe about 23-24). I was at Burger King. And the guy (boy?) behind the counter called me ma'am. And inside I started screaming to myself "I am not a ma'am! I'm a Miss!" And then I noticed he was probably 16. So, to him, I *was* a ma'am. Over the last couple years, I've sorta gotten used to being called ma'am by some of the young teenagers working at various cash registers. I don't like it, but at least it doesn't send me into a huge lament about aging.

Yesterday, though, something very bad happened. I was at the gas station. The cashier was 65-70 years old if he was a day. And *he* called me ma'am! How am I a ma'am to him?! I mean, I could almost be his granddaughter! I am totally a "Miss"! Especially to him! I'm not that old! I think the only way to balance this is to get carded at the liquor store. That would make me feel better.