The anatomy of a blonde moment

Hello, my name is Rebecca, and I am blonde.

I am OK with it. In fact, I allow myself a quota of “blonde moments” each week. And yes, in answer to your question: moving to Kenya has increased my allowance.

My definition of “blonde moment” is quite loose. Basically, anytime I look silly, it could become part of my blonde lexicon.

Admit it, that time you expected to see “blonde” and “lexicon” in the same sentence was … never.

By embracing my blondeness, it helps. Instead of curling into the fetal position every time I do something ridiculous, I can pick myself up and move on.

Keep on truckin’

Like that time last week when I did a complete face plant right in front of the State House during a 10K run – much to the entertainment of the passersby and cars sitting in traffic.

In American terms, that would be like me running past the White House and wiping out in front of hordes of school-age field trippers from Peoria, Illinois. Yeah, like that.

I learned my lesson though. I gave that spot a wide berth the next time I ran that route. I got through the run just fine, thank you very much, despite crossing paths with a black cat.

I kid you not.

A Zoolander moment

Oh, and there’s that time I got a MacBook Pro and couldn’t open the lid. I had a moment of empathy for Derek and Hansel. “They’re in the computer?”

It gets better. I had to Google it.

I’ll let that soak in for a moment.

See how secure I am? I just made a private blonde moment public.

In my defense, I’m not the only one.

When in Kenya …

I’ve already learned not to be insulted when someone says they’re going to “flash” me. And whatever you do, don’t talk about “pants” in public.

If I’ve got those bits of cultural savvy down, everything else should be a breeze, right?

I know, I know. If I really think that, I should chalk it up to yet another blonde moment.


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