Lose the Battle, Win the War

The Phoenix Armistice of TwentyTen: An Official Treaty

To the Powers that Be in Grown-up Land:

After much consideration (and wailing and gnashing of teeth), I have decided to concede to your conniving wiles and ruthless dominion.

The terms of my surrender:

I will dutifully wear grown-up shoes to work.

If you continue to let me wear jeans on Friday. And sometimes Thursdays.

You will allow me to continue painting my fingernails outlandish colors.

If I promise to keep them from looking chipped and childish.

I will (regretfully) pass up the urge to dye a pink stripe in my hair (a la 2007 and 2008).

If you don't force me to blow-dry and straighten my hair every morning.

You will allow me an occasional naptime.

If I promise not to stay up past midnight anymore on weekdays.

I will eat my oatmeal and banana for breakfast, like a healthy little robot.

If you keep making cupcakes/cookies/brownies appear in the break room every now and again.

I will continue giving you 60% of my waking hours.

If you teach me how to not be braindead for the other 40%.

I'll also consider not lying facedown (and maybe drooling) on the couch anymore every Friday evening after work.

No, I take that last one back.

Consider this my white flag.

If you can't agree to these terms...prepare your bayonets, because this may get ugly.

Sincerely,

Career Barbie

p.s. Thank you for allowing me to convince the CEO that we need to play Sandlot on the TV in the breakroom to celebrate the start of baseball season in April. It was ever-so-generous of you.