Yes, you read that correct: lice. I am grateful for lice.

I’m sure many people have many different reasons to be grateful for lice, but let me explain mine. My five-year-old son brought home lice at the end of his Pre-K year. I have two small children, so I had no delusions; I knew that lice would eventually show up in my life. And so they did that fateful day last year just as summer began.

Lice are probably one of the ugliest, nastiest, creepiest looking bugs on the planet. I knew we had lice, but I hadn’t accepted it yet. My head had been itching, and I had seen my son scratching his head, but I refused to admit anything. I was terrified of lice. Then the morning came when my son actually said out loud, “My head itches.” I had to look.

And there, crawling all over his head, was a terrible infestation of lice. Since I had let myself live in denial for so long, there were quite a few full-sized adults hatched and living in his hair.

I freaked out.

I properly freaked out.

Poisons terrify me, so the lice shampoos and prescriptions were not a choice. There was only one choice: shave our heads. No poison involved and lice killed instantly.

After my husband shaved our son’s head (my husband is mostly bald and has been shaving his head for years, so he had all the equipment and knowledge necessary for this operation), I told my husband to shave my head. He said, “Are you sure? You’re going to regret it.” But I had seen the lice fall into the sink as he shaved our son’s head, and I had seen the remaining lice crawling around his little bald head until my husband washed his scalp and removed all remaining lice. They were awful. It made my stomach turn. I said, “Just shave my head! Get rid of the lice!”

So my husband shaved my head. And I was bald. Any pretenses of beauty or femininity I may have had fell into the sink and washed away with the lice and my hair. As I looked at my bald reflection, I was mortified, frightened and really really sad. But the lice were gone.

Now, I had to go outside. I told my husband that if I didn’t go outside that day, I would spend the next month frightened and holed up in the house, waiting for my hair to grow back. So, being the wonderful man he is, he held my hand and we all went out as a family for a meal and a movie.

I hated it. I knew people were staring at me just as I would stare at someone with a mohawk or bright pink hair. I stood out and not in a pretty way. I looked weird. I hadn’t been that crushingly self-conscious since I was a teenager.

And each day, with my bald head, I went out and did my errands. And each day, I hated it.

But in the end, the overall experience was liberating and exhilarating. I had to face fear and embarrassment every day for a month or two until my hair started growing back. And the fear and embarrassment didn’t stop me from living or being or even being awesome. And I learned, in a very intimate manner, two very valuable lessons:

1)    Our looks do not make us amazing. Looks are incidental to our behavior, and behavior is what makes someone amazing.

2)    I can face fear. Bravery is not absence of fear; it’s acting in spite of fear. So even though I’m afraid, I can still make my feet move forward and go through the actions and make my will happen.

After my lice-induced baldness, I had the courage to face another fear. I’m 44 years old, and I’ve always wanted to learn violin. But I felt foolish walking into the lessons surrounded by all of the 8-year-olds and 10-year-olds who are also taking beginner violin lessons. I felt foolish and embarrassed.

But with my bald head, I had acted in spite of fear and embarrassment, and I now had the experience tucked under my belt. So I picked up my violin, and even though my face was bright red with embarrassment, I started taking lessons at 44 years old, the only adult among a sea of little kids. It was embarrassing, and it’s still embarrassing as I go to my lesson every week. But I act in spite of my embarrassment and I’m finally learning the violin.

So I’m thankful for the lice and I’m thankful for the bald head. It was not a fun experience, but it was an amazing experience.

(Crossposted to: Life with Science)

I’m 43 years old. Depending on your personal position on the timeline of life, you may think, “That’s so old,” or “Gosh, you’re still so young.” Or perhaps both. Old enough to feel regret but young enough to have the time to do something about it.

And I’ve been wallowing pretty badly in self-pity, going through my midlife crisis. As my skin begins to wrinkle and my hair begins to gray, I stare longingly at pictures of 20- and 30-something year olds, knowing that I will never have the stunning look of youth again. Those days are gone.

There are five stages of grief — the mourning of anything that is lost: 1. Denial, 2. Anger, 3. Bargaining, 4. Depression, 5. Acceptance. And I hope to goodness that I’m on to Acceptance soon because I’m becoming very tired of this midlife crisis thing. It’s been very annoying and inconvenient.

But in the acceptance of passing youth, I think that I’m finding myself. In the knowledge that I am the age that I am and there is absolutely nothing that I can do about that, I’m finding that I actually just like being me. It’s been a rough and bumpy ride to this point, full of tears, longing and anger, but I think I’m near the end.

When you are young, you constantly remake yourself in society’s current image of youth. Whichever subculture you choose, you wear the uniform and adopt the mannerisms to fit into your chosen group.

But none of that is available to you when you are older because all of our cultural images revolve around youth. We no longer are able to remake ourselves, left only with a blank canvas and painful longing and misunderstanding.

But every blank canvas is a gift. A divorce, a move, any kind of forced significant change: you are left shattered but with great opportunity. And, after being punched in the gut by life, when you finally get your wind back and are able to stand again, you realize that before you lies a wonderful, beautiful blank canvas. What shall I paint this time?

I’ll still miss my youthful skin, but it is pleasant to realize that I don’t have any references or ideas to model myself after. I have only me. And it’s going to be a lot of fun.

It’s extremely hard to allow yourself to just be. There are parts of every person’s personality that are so intense and over the top as to be embarrassing. I’ll give you an example. I plan and make lists to a stupid degree. I’m the kind of person that would make lists of my lists. I have lists and planners and calendars littered around my house and filling up my hard drive. In fact, I make so many lists and planners, that I used to hide my habit, embarrassed of all of my silly lists.

The problem is, when you feel embarrassed, you also feel shame. And when you feel ashamed, you feel like there is something wrong with you. So I hid my secret, carefully guarding my book of lists and calendars, never letting anyone on my computer, fearful that my dirty little secret would be revealed to the world.

It was a heavy burden to carry and one that I could never get rid of because, in the end, my neurotic borderline-OCD planning is who I am and I can’t change that. It’s at the core of who I am. I can change habits, but I can’t change core personality traits. So I remained embarrassed and sad and carried my secret with me.

And then I watched my daughter. She is seven years old and she makes lists and loves office supplies and calendars. At the tender age of seven, she wanted to learn Microsoft Word so she could write her lists up on the computer and print them out. Sure, it’s easy to say, “Well, look at the environment in which she is raised. You make your lists and you have the big family calendar up in the kitchen.” This is true. Her environment nurtures this part of her, but it’s more than that. My son has absolutely no interest in lists or calendars. He could care less. But my daughter loves going to Office Depot as much as I do. Her desk is her sanctuary, just as mine is to me.

But there is one notable and significant difference between me and my daughter: she isn’t embarrassed. She embraces this part of herself with joy. She writes up her lists and plays with her calendar with a happiness that comes from within. She has so much fun, and she doesn’t care who watches her.

As we grow up and enter society and try to fit in, we start to hide parts of ourselves — important parts of ourselves. I’ve also hidden my love of Renaissance Festivals and Medieval music because I didn’t want to be seen as a big nerd. These parts of my personality slink around in the darkness like thieves staying to the night.

This message really spoke to me in How to Train Your Dragon. Hiccup wants so badly to fit in with all of the other Vikings who kill dragons. He tries desperately to kill dragons, but makes a total mess of it every time because, inside his heart, he’s not a dragon killer. There is a foreshadowing to this theme when his dad tells him, “You are many things, Hiccup, but a dragon killer is not one of them.” Of course, his dad doesn’t say this as a compliment, for to be a heroic Viking in the village of Berk, one must become a dragon killer.

And one of the most poignant conversations is at the very beginning of the movie as Hiccup’s mentor, Gobber, is walking him back to his home after he has made yet another terrible mess while trying to kill a dragon. And Gobber says, “Stop trying so hard to be something you’re not.” And Hiccup replies, “I just want to be one of you guys.”

And it’s when he has an opportunity to kill a dragon, and he can’t, that he quits trying to be something he’s not. And when he finally allows himself to be exactly who he is — a dragon trainer, not a dragon killer — he becomes heroic.

And that’s the message of this long-winded blog entry. I know it’s hard. I know from experience that it’s hard to allow yourself to be exactly who you are. It’s hard to publically admit that you really want to dress like Emilie Autumn or that you want to dance on stage or any of a million things that are hidden away.

But when you finally allow yourself to be exactly who you are, you will become heroic.

I am a prisoner, bound naked to a crumbling stone wall by shackles of rusted steel. It’s an awful prison with the sounds of dripping water, cries and silence as my only companions.

I’ve tried to leave this place many times. Being a vivid, almost physical, figment of my imagination, I’ve tried to imagine the shackles miraculously opening, freeing me. Or I have tried to find the magic golden key that will save me somewhere inside of me. But I always end up back in this nameless dungeon filled with sadness and shackled to the wall, searching — wishing — for the key.

The thing is, I do think the key is inside of me, but it isn’t a magic golden key created from wishes, prayers and tears. It is a heavy key as solid as my soul. It carries the weight of my witnessed pain. Only when I walk through the blinding, searing, burning fire of my pain will the key be forged. Wishes, prayers and tears soothe the intense burning, but it is only by walking the path that I will finally get out of this psychic prison.

I bury my pain under Warcraft, eating and spending. I shovel pile after pile of food, stuff and playtime onto my pain, trying to cover the searing fire.

But it never works. Pain is one of the strongest fires that forge the soul. And it’s necessary that I walk through it.

And to move forward, I’m going to have to face the shit that I don’t want to face. I’m going to have to admit to the things I don’t want to admit to. The other choice is stagnancy, and I’ve been living there long enough.

Am I feeling ugly and worthless? Am I feeling humiliated and tired? Am I feeling lonely and sad? It all needs to come out. I can’t keep shoving it to the side or trying to bury it, anything but look at it.

Open my eyes, look, speak and write. Allow the pain and fire to leave my soul. I must write with honesty and hope.

So, with tears blurring my vision and fear making me stumble, I move towards the fire. I’m tired of being bound to the cold, wet walls of this prison. I choose the key. I choose the fire.