So I just joined Instagram a few weeks ago. I’d been resisting, but I’ve found that it’s a great place to upload all the Jac & Elsie jewelry pics I take that have no where else to go (works-in-progress, custom pieces). I guess I could post them here, but Instagram’s a little easier.
I recently realized that my bio was blank, and I started to fill it out. When I was finished, I saw the 150-character limit. Oh. Duh. So I cut some words. Then chopped it in half. Then cut some more words. Then came up with this:
I make jewelry. I can’t say much else of substance in 150 characters.
I mean, have you figured out how to be substantial in 150 characters? If so, teach me.
Because while Instagram is better than a blog for photos of jewelry (and flowers, it seems–I’m very excited by spring and appear to post lots of blooms), it is not a go-to place for waxing poetic. Again: Duh.
As I was trying to figure out what to say, before I realized I was so limited in characters, I started to think about how much I’ve changed over the years. A lot hasn’t … but a lot is new, something I figure all adults realize about themselves.
Today, my longer-form bio might look like this:
I make jewelry. It started as a hobby and has grown into a business. I’m even an LLC. Which makes me a COO. Which is hilarious.
I’ve lived in my current hometown for going on six years. It’s the longest I’ve lived anywhere since I was a child.
I enjoy a cigar and good whiskey, neat. I have an unnatural affection for Donald Duck. I adore Stephen King books. Those first two traits confound my mother. The last two, not so much. I think it’s because Donald and Stephen have been in my life since I was little. New things and traits to my life, items I’ve found as an adult, personality traits that now define me, are less familiar to her.
The last time I lived at home, I was still really bad at keeping secrets. I had never been drunk. I had never smoked, anything. I made snap judgements about people. I had impossibly high expectations, in all areas of my life: love, friends, jobs.
Today, I can gossip with the right friend, about the right topic, but I know how to keep my mouth shut. I understand the difference between catty gossip and what indicates genuine concern for a person. I have trained myself to enjoy beer, and I have discovered that my alcohol of choice is, in fact, good whiskey. I enjoy cigars. I think it’s the persona they create. There’s something fabulous about a woman with a stiff drink and a stogie. Despite the shattering of some gender stereotypes, booze and cigars are still seen as a man’s thing. And yet, these two things make me feel impossibly feminine. They seem to stress the fact that I’m a woman.
I am not remotely the woman I was 10 years ago, nor do I have any interest in being her. I mean, she was alright, but she was kind of boring, kind of straight-laced. She was kinder, for sure. She wasn’t as quick to dismiss stupid people. That’s something else that would need to go in a bio of me: I loath stupidity. More, I loath rude, selfish people. I don’t deal well with texting-and-driving. I have asked more than one person in front of me in a movie theater to stop texting. When I see a group of people out to dinner, and they’re all absorbed in their phones, it makes me crazy. No one — let me repeat: NO ONE — is that important. Put your dang phone away and enjoy a sun set, a friend, a good book. Live in the moment; it’s amazing what you miss when you’re looking down all the time ((steps off soap box))
My favorite Friday nights are spent on the couch with my honey, a bottle of wine, some good cheese, and a couple movies, which we usually rent from Family Video, the last video rental place in town. Yes, I still rent DVDs. My favorite Saturday nights are going to dinner with friends, maybe they come over and hang out after. I’m pretty easy to please. That whole “I have crazy expectations” things has gone. It’s probably my favorite change I’ve seen in myself over the last decade.
I’ve found life to be much happier that way.