Grey’s Anatomy – Home Edition

No matter how much I cry, wail, shriek, yell or stomp my feet in protest, I’m aging and it’s not a pretty sight. Part of the process, for me anyway, is the accumulation of millions upon bazillions of grey hairs all about my head. While these hairs spread out across all regions of my head, their absolute favorite place to hang out and chill is on the very top in the shape of a lasagna noodle. It’s in this very spot where they multiply at an exponential rate. And, if I’m being totally honest here, they’re more of a bright, garish, glaring, oh-my-God-you’re-blinding-me shade of white. Looks just AWESOME against the few remaining brunette hairs that are fighting the good fight but failing miserably.

I don’t know for sure if God got his ingredients mixed up way back when He made me but I’m betting a big, fat YES. I’m thinking that somewhere along the way, GOD GOT A LITTLE DISTRACTED WHILE READING MY RECIPE.

Maybe He had a lot of things weighing heavy on his mind that day, maybe He felt a bit under the weather, or maybe He was just pissed off. Who knows? All I know for sure is that I did not get the “freakishly quick metabolism” and “no sweating” genes that I’m sure were due me. And why I didn’t get a drop of any “athletically inclined” and “thrill seeking junkie” genes while my twin brother got loads of both is simply beyond me. While we’re at it, I would have also liked a bit of that cool “ability to solve quadratic equations so that her teenage daughter doesn’t think she is a moron” gene right about now, but nooooooo. Instead, a befuddled God thought my DNA could use a healthy dose of a gene that causes my hair to be impervious to every dye known to mankind and morph into something that bears a striking resemblance to skunk’s fur about every four weeks or so.

Unless it was supposed to be a joke and if so, who knew God had such a funny sense of humor?

To be fair though, I do believe that the stress of daily life contributes somewhat to my predicament. Let’s take a stroll down memory lane, shall we?

• “Well, I’m afraid it’s broken.” (declared by doctor while examining x-ray of then six year old daughter’s leg) 57 hairs
• “Well, I’m afraid it’s broken.” (declared by same doctor while examining x-ray of same daughter’s arm, almost exactly one year later) 112 hairs
  
• “Well, I’m afraid it’s broken.” (declared by same doctor while examining same daughter’s wrist three years later) 493 hairs
• “MOM! MOM! I’M GOING TO RACE MOTORCYCLES WITH DADDY WHEN I GET OLDER!!” (ecstatically shouted by same daughter later that same year) 734 hairs and one migraine
• “No, a bone scan isn’t necessary. She’s a growing girl who’s just a little uncoordinated.” (declared by same doctor while casting same daughter’s finger, two years later) 88 hairs and brief consideration of creative uses of bubble wrap
• “Oh my gosh, I only have four more years until I can drive” (said in awe by same daughter) 54, 827 hairs
• “Hey Mom, do you realize I’m going to turn thirteen the same year you turn forty? (whispered by same daughter) 503 hairs and 2 panic attacks
• THIS PAGE NOT FOUND (yelled via online message by my Internet provider, after accessing the same page 5 seconds earlier) approximately 62 hairs, give or take those yanked out in frustration
• “Your call will be answered in the order that it was received. You are caller 96. Thank you for your patience.” 39 hairs and one entire bag of Pepperidge Farms Orange Milano Cookies.
  
• “Wow – did you see that?!?” (exclaimed amongst doctors while performing initial incision during c-section for second daughter) 300 hairs and a plea to just shoot me
• Partially severed ear suffered by second daughter by crashing head first into TV cabinet. 1,632 hairs and 10 years off my life
• “Mom, don’t freak out … I kind of have a boyfriend.” (declared by fourteen year old daughter) 721 hairs and 30 minutes in total freak out mode, albeit silently
  
• WARNING: PHOTOSHOP HAS ENCOUNTERED A FATAL ERROR AND MUST CLOSE. OH AND BY THE WAY, YOU FORGOT TO SAVE YOUR WORK. 317 hairs and two bruised knuckles from punching the wall

So, maybe I’ll give God the benefit of the doubt about my dubious DNA. But I’m still ticked about the quadratic equation one.