Andy Lien

I shouldn’ t say metformin 500 mg for pcos things like “More tomorrow.”  That’s like the kiss of death for me as a writer.  It’s something I need to work on…saying I’ll do something and then doing it.  But, to my defense, I wrote most of this yesterday…but needed to find the perfect photos for the end.  You’ll thank me for it.

I think I’ll just write about Reunion in installments.  I’ve got so much to say about it that to write about it in one sitting would take me forever…so I’d put it off and never do it.  Plus, I doubt you want a tome this week.

As one of the chairs of our reunion Planning Committee, I was in charge of promoting the event.  We started planning it over a year ago and used the college’s boilerplate schedule for marketing reunion…adding our own twists to it here and there (because we are anti-authoritarian, anti-establishment, and pro-tantrum as Mac alums).  Oddly, it was funny to realize that as I was framing the discussions about promotions, I was actually using techniques and terms that I would’ve lambasted as an undergrad.  I mean, we’re talking about targeting demographic groups to be on the committee in terms of race, gender, class, religion, dietary choices, sexual orientation, child-rearing status, geographic location…all of ‘em.  Bad us.  But, one thing the world has taught me since college is that there is a reason for stereotypes and organizing information into smaller and easier to understand bits of generalizations.

Don’t judge me.  It’s true.  If I can attract more people of a certain demographic group to come to an event because another person from that same demographic group is on the committee and they see a connection or kinship with the event because of it, it’s a successful method of promotion.

What we found is that, despite the diversity of our class, there is one universal truth: People are kinda scared of attending a reunion.  For many reasons.  Weight gain, hair loss, marital status, lack of employment…fear of being judged as being a lesser person due to changes since college.  So, as a committee, we came up with our campaign to address the fear: “Come As You Are,” a la Nirvana.

We sent out email messages from many of us personally addressing a particular reason why someone wouldn’t come, but that folks should “Come As You Are,” anyway.  What could I say?  Well, since I’ve actually lost weight since our last reunion, I could be smug about that.  And, since I am actually re-employed since our last reunion, I could stable my high horse at one of the dorms for the weekend.  Oh, and since I “took myself off the market” last week, I could glibly say that I’m single and not even trying to find someone.  Wardrobe wasn’t an issue since most of these people hadn’t seen me in at least five years so they also haven’t seen my clothes lately, either.  I was in great shape for the reunion.

Except for one thing.  Roots of dark blonde from my scalp to about four inches down my 14-inches of hair length at which point the hair became light blonde.  Yeah, I had a good dye job last time…about six months ago.  So, I had a decision to make.  I could go as I was and be unhappy about it or I could scrape together enough money to go to the Aveda Institute in Minneapolis and have a student give me a cut and color for about $50.  Well, I wasn’t about to go with my hair in that shape.  I remember when I was 18, barely a few months at Macalester, and had gotten a tattoo.  I told my parents that there was something new about me, but that they’d have to wait and see what it was.  When my mother mentioned the riddle to her teacher-friends at school, one of them opined that I had colored my hair some radical hue which my mother quickly dismissed by saying, “Nah, she’s too vain.”

Here I metformin hydrochloride am with Carson a couple of months ago...there's a hint of the roots from this angle. I didn't want to post a more current one because I'm too vain for that.

Well, okay. Here's one from Easter...just for honesty's sake. You aren't getting any more recent ones. I look at that and see ROOTS. And a pork chop.

And, it’s true.  Mostly.  I mean, I’m apparently not too vain to let those roots grow out four inches in my day-to-day life, but the reunion had me runnin’ for the hair-color hills.  My therapist and I even ran into a snag during Therapy Thursday a few weeks ago because I was planning to use money that is needed elsewhere to not only golden my hair, but my calf as well.  I was putting hair color above other needs (who needs to renew an expired Driver’s License, anyway?).  Yes, I was definitely playing around with Baal and idolizing my locks.  Not only that, I was taunting the Gods of Reunions.  I had been sending out “Come As You Are” propaganda for months and months…and now I was going to have my hair bleached by a student the weekend before the big event.

How do the Gods of Reunions reward such vanity and disrespect?  By not only raining out the weekend so my hair frizzed, but by making sure that my Aveda student had never bleached hair before.  How is incorrectly bleached hair fixed to look presentable in public?  With more bleach.

Yes, as it turned out, I “Went As I Was,” and this is what I was:

Really. Not bad, just...well...shockingly different. To me.

I realize that some may not think it’s that different…but I was doing double- and triple-takes as I passed mirrors for an entire week.  I’d argued to my therapist that I had to get my hair done–that I identify as a blonde.  Well, let me rephrase that…I identify as a blonde, but not that blonde.  Wowie.  But, I had to make some lemonade with the hue of this new ‘do.  I had to suck it up.  I had to look Murphy’s Law in the face and give it a raspberry.  I had to apologize to the Gods of Reunions for fear of things getting worse.

I had to embrace my inner bombshell:

Mwah.

With my lemonade in hand, I went to the reunion.  My hair actually became a nice ice-breaker topic.  It provided a little humility to throw in while acknowledging and appreciating the fact that others came as they were…whatever they may or may not have liked about themselves the weekend before the event.

If I thought my four-inch somewhat blended-in roots were bad…wait’ll these puppies grow out.  Ouch.