What I Am

After a long first week of school and inevitable procrastination, I was exhausted and ready to pass out.  About two weeks prior to this day I had finally succeeded in passing my drivers permit test.  And having this new found sense of freedom causes me to jump at any opportunity to get behind the wheel.  Ignoring my current mental state I persisted in driving home.  There was little traffic so I allowed my mind wander a little bit.  I turned down our street and positioned the car to pull into the driveway.  As I was doing so, the thought occurred to me that the van that was normally parked there was missing.  I vocalized my thoughts to my mom. She just looked at me, exasperation plain as day on her face and asked if I was kidding.  The realization hit me like a ton of bricks.  I was driving the van.  My mom thought this was absolutely hilarious, in fact we were both laughing hysterically.  But in between her laughs and struggles to catch her breath, she dropped the “b- bomb.”  Now I do not particularly enjoy being called this word.  It is hurtful to be called a “blonde.”

Okay so I do have my moments.  But I have a liable reason for this, once out of the fortress called school and my homework is complete, I have a tendency to shut my brain down.  It is not intentional, it just happens as a way to detach myself from my stress.  However, whenever I do this, my ‘smarticles’ seem to go adiós.  People seem to chalk this up to me being “blonde.”   And as Dolly Parton once said, “I am not offended by dumb blonde jokes because I know that I’m not dumb.  I also know that I’m not blonde.”  I recognize that I have blonde moments, but I would like to set the record straight.  I am not “blonde”; I am a brunette who suffers from blonditis.  Many non-blondes suffer from this disorder.  We can’t control it but the mockery never ceases.

Here’s an example of what I’m talking about: One day a year or two ago, I took a study break from prepping for some test that had me cramming.  My family went out to dinner at the Chinese Restaurant, Ming Dynasty.  As I was sitting there brain fried waiting for my parents to finish their food I slumped down onto the table and ran my hand past my face and through my hair.  Suddenly, the room became darker.  I just sat there, perplexed, and pondered what the heck had just happened.  After a few minutes I gave up and asked, “Did it just get darker in here?”  Both of my parents were flabbergasted by my observation.  Apparently the lighting in the room hadn’t changed at all.  They slowly said no as if they were questioning my sanity.  I looked up confused more than ever and saw that my hand, still on my head, was blocking the light from my eyes.  I quickly said, “Oh never mind,” and tried to move on the conversation.  I tried to shy away from their knowing look but there was no hiding it, I know they were thinking it, the hated word “blonde.”  I have attempted to explain my condition to them before but they don’t understand and I don’t think they ever will unless they become infected like me.  Over the years, my family has learned to refrain from the word “blonde” and now whenever I have one of my moments they simply say, “Did it just get darker in here?”  It seems as if I will never live this down.  Lucky me.  I see that we blonditis sufferers have much educating of the public left to do.