I've said it before and I'll say it again: I wear my heart on my face.
I don't really mind this about me because it's kind of nice. I don't feel like there's any point in faking it because 9 times out of 10 when I lie I get this response: "you're not a very good liar, are you?" There is a known-ness to it that I like. I am thankful that this readableness is woven into my genetic makeup because were it not there naturally, I might spend a greater amount of my life in hiding than I do. And that, we've established, isn't great.
Anyway, a few weeks ago, at work, I was feeling especially harried. I swear about half my caseload was in crisis and I didn't know where to begin to get everyone situated by the time the clock hit five. I walked into my office and started to vent to my office mates in a frantic manner. One of said officemates, God bless her, stopped me. "Sorry," she said, "I just want to say that I could already tell you were having a bad day. I think I can usually tell what kind of day you're having by the way your hair looks." Mind you, in this moment, my hair was curly [i.e. lion-like] and haphazardly thrown into a sort of side clump of hair by a clip so tiny that it couldn't hold all my hair in if it tried.
Now not only am I wearing my heart on my face, I am wearing it in my hair as well.
I know this is a silly thing, but in that moment, I felt a little bit naked. I felt exposed. This girl has known me for what, 5 weeks at this point? And she can already tell just by looking at me what mood I'm in? This does not bode well for me in the hide-the-crazy department, let's just put it that way.
And then I turned on my tiny red ipod, and Katie Herzig sang these words to me:
freedom is: a naked heart
And I thought, ok. Fine.