Thursday, January 25, 2007

When Wishing Works ...

When I was younger, I wanted green eyes.

My coloring takes after my father's side of the family, the Polish-with-a-smidgen-of-German side. Fairer skin, fairer hair. My eyes were always a variation of bluish-grey. Sometimes more blue, sometimes more grey. It depended on the weather.

But green eyes seemed so exotic. So out of the ordianry. Most people have blue eyes or brown eyes or hazel eyes. Very few people have green eyes. People I know, anyway.

And besides, green is my favorite color.

So, I wished for green eyes.

And then, one day, I had them.

I don't know what makes your eyes change color. I'm guessing that wishing isn't all that's involved. They're not emerald green. Which is good, because then people would presume I was wearing colored contacts. They're sage green. Gray green. The color of my bedroom. The color of my formerly favorite sweatshirty thing that eventually got so washed out and worn out that I had to throw it away. But I loved that shirt. It was so comfy. And it matched my eyes perfectly.

My friend Barbara noticed them one day at the Tribune. I was leaning on her cube wall, wearing a different sage-green sweatshirt, this one hooded, chatting about something completely unrelated to work, I'm sure, when she realized that my eyes matched my shirt.

And Dave noticed them one day in "our" Starbucks. He was fond of the irony of the Starbucks with the view of Cabrini Green, so we went there often. I happened to be sitting under a downlight. Dave and I were chatting. He stopped talking. I looked at him as if to say, "What?"

"Your eyes!," he said. "They're the most amazing shade of ..." He leaned closer. "Green, is it?""


And I was never a big fan of my hair. It's kinda ashy blonde, kinda brown, surely boring. And straight. Straight and mousy. Nice. I wished it had some character. Not A-list hair, necessarily, but not Second Girl in Coffee Shop hair, either.

J-D, my hair architect, takes care of the color (and will work his magic again next week!), and told me a couple years back that I have wavy hair.

Uh, no I don't.

Yes, you do.

Nuh uh.

Next time you wash it, he said, just let it dry. You'll see.

Well, of course he's right. He's my hair architect.

I washed it last night. And then I went to bed. This morning, I looked in the mirror and wow, I have wavy hair.

When the hell did that happen?

And it wasn't just kinked from sleeping on it. It stayed wavy all day. It's still wavy. Wild.

I need to wish for stuff outside myself.

I wish to meet Liam Neeson. (It could happen. We have a mutual friend.)

I wish to see Kevin Spacey in "A Moon for the Misbegotten." But that's a given. Tix are already on sale! New York, here I come!


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