Around midnight on Friday I walked in the door after an epic-long day at work, exhausted.  As I took my scarf off, I noticed a long box from Amazon at my feet.  Now, boxes from Amazon are not unusual in this house.  We buy a lot of things on line, so packages in the mail are not necessarily things to get excited about.  But what was unusual about this box is that at 12:00 at night it was unopened.

“What’s with the box?” I asked, poking it with my toe.  “I don’t know, but I think it’s a present,” Kyle said from the couch.  “It’s addressed to both of us, and we never do that when we order stuff.”

“Okay, well, do you want to open it?” I asked.  “Technically, I guess we should wait until Christmas, shouldn’t we?”

“Fuck it,” Kyle said, putting down his laptop and moving to the couch in front of me.  “We won’t be home on Christmas anyway, so let’s just open it now.”

So I pulled out my knife, still wearing my coat, and balancing the box on the back of the couch, I cut the packing tape.  Inside the box was a large, navy blue velvet bag tied with a yellow ribbon.  It seemed to contain a lumpy package.  “Well, this looks fancy,” Kyle said, pulling the bag out of the box.  “Hang on,” I said, reaching out for the white square attached to the ribbon, “I think there’s a note.”

Taking the bag from Kyle, I opened the little white card and immediately cracked up.   Inside, this is what it said:

And this, is why I love my husband’s family.

My taste in underpants tends to run in phases.  Freshmen gym and joining my first sports team inspired me to trade in my Underoos for more stylish underpants.  My favorite pair were baby blue and featured little cows and the words “Oh la vache!”  all over them.  The ballet company and its backstage quick changes introduced me to the thong and all the flexibility it afforded.  In college, dance classes meant I spent half my life in thongs and sports bras, but on weekends I insisted on wearing matching bra and panties, preferably bought in sets.  And over the last couple of years, my taste has waned a little.  Sure, I always pick out cute underpants in pretty colors and patterns, but they come in a five-pack from Walmart.  And if I’m sporting yellow and orange polka dotted underwear and a burgundy bra, it’s no big deal.  Honest to god, as long as they’re both clean, who cares what color they are?

But recently I decided that I deserve better.  We all know that I’m passionate about my Victoria’s Secret bras.  Clearly, I take care of my girls, and it’s time my bum got the same special treatment.  So it was time to trade my slightly dingy, clearly worn, Plain Jane underpants in for something a little more luxurious.  From underpants to panties.  Victoria’s Secret was running a special of 7 pairs of panties for $25.  I’ve got a couple pairs of theirs thanks to their Free Pantie coupons and I adore them.  Perfect.

So I went and I picked out a couple pairs of hipsters, a couple pairs of bikini cuts, all very cute.  Fun heart-shaped buttons, dainty little bows, ruching, contrasting colored trim, stripes, leopard, dots.  Kyle gave his approval, yet I was able to wear them to work and they were super comfy.  Love, love, love.

Until I went for my morning three-mile run.  And those darling little panties bunched themselves together and burrowed themselves halfway to my intestines.  I spent the first half of my run doing this odd little hop-step-wedgie-pick in a futile attempt to keep my underpants out of my ass.   Finally I just gave in, accepted their place in my crack, and finished my run.  The next day, same story.  Five steps in and ZOOM, they climbed right back up into my bum.  Rather than try to fight it, I attempted to leave them be and ignore them, with some success.  I definitely wished they weren’t there, but compared with my burning lungs and tired legs they were small potatoes.  Manageable.

Which brings us to The Great Pantie Debate.  I love my stylish new panties.  They’re fun and pretty and they put a smile on my face every time I pee.  They’re super duper comfy and totally practical in every aspect of my life.  Except when I run.  So is it worth it?  Do I keep sporting my pretty panties, knowing that I will forever run with a wedgie?  Or do I return to my Walmart specials, which, though totally unglamorous, stayed out of my ass 98% of the time?  (With the remaining 2% being when Kyle thinks he’s funny and sneaks up behind me and gives me wedgies.  God, I love that man…)  Is the happiness they give me worth the discomfort?

I don’t know.  I guess it’s something to pick at.

So, last week I decided that I wanted to dye my hair.

I’m 24 years old, had never colored my hair in my life, and suddenly I wake up and decide that I want to be a brunette.  Random, I know.

I think some of it has to do with the time of year.  It was about this time of year last year that I felt the urge to have a hole punched in my nose.  Something about the chill, crisp air of autumn combined with the anticipation of the holidays makes me feel very alive, like there’s extra blood in my veins.  And that makes me antsy to push forward, rise up, do something, make a change.  Two years ago, it meant chopping all my hair off.  Last year, it meant getting my nose pierced.  And this year, I guess, it meant dying my hair.

But I also wanted to dye my hair in order to say something.  I’ve been making a lot of changes in my life, recently.  Watching my calorie intake, taking up running, drinking more water.  And it’s paying off.  I went to the doctor on Friday for a physical, and in a year, I’ve lost 20 pounds, and my numbers are spectacular.  I feel better.  I look better.  I can comfortably wear all those jeans I bought in college and got too fat for, but held onto because I wouldn’t face the fact that I was too fat.  I’m running between 2.25 and 5 miles everyday.

And I am fucking proud of myself.

But the thing is, no one notices the changes I’ve made in my life unless I tell them.  I don’t expect them to.  The changes I made were all personal changes, with subtle outward results.  I don’t begrudge the world one bit for not sitting up and taking note and cheering on my behalf.  But that doesn’t mean I don’t wish they would.  And thus, the desire for change.  I feel like a totally new person on the inside, and I want people to see that I’m a new person on the outside, too.

Which is how my blah-blah, non-descript, dishwater blonde hair…

became deep, warm, cinnamon brown hair.

Okay, not quite the drastic change I’d planned on.  (Kyle was actually disappointed when he saw it.  He wanted me to go bright red because according to him, “I was excited about getting to bone a redhead.”)  It doesn’t so much scream, “Look at the new me!” as calmly state it.  But I love it all the same.  It makes me feel stronger, more definitive, like I stand with more firmness.  My nose piercing made me feel like I could kick ass; my new hair makes me feel like I wouldn’t get knocked down.

And I dig that.