A couple of months ago, I got a tattoo. Yes, I’ve been quiet about it. It just feels dorky to post on Facebook and my blog. But I love it.

In case your Sanskrit is rusty, it says “Santosha.” In my translation, it means “being happy in the moment.”

I have trouble with this. I’m always thinking about how awesome things will be on our next vacation, or when we move into our next house, or get our next car. You see a pattern of consumption?

I have an amazing life today, and it’s one I want to revel in more. So I got a tattoo to remind me that nothing is more important than right now.

And yes, it was my first tattoo. I waited 33 years before deciding I must have a permanent mark on my body. I’m weird, I know. But I got it with my best friend who also waited 33 years (except she got her first one a few months before I did. The Bee couldn’t wait.)

Santosha, ya’ll.

I decided years ago I’d be ok with aging. I wouldn’t get Botox or a facelift. I don’t really even want to buy in to anti-aging products. I reserve the right to change my mind.

But how do I feel about gray hair?

PS: this is not my gray hair. I pluck ‘em!

My mom still hardly has any gray. I guess I was riding on the hope that I’d end up like her, and not my grandma, who started graying in her 20s. Hmm. Maybe not.

More and more, when I look in the mirror, I see a stray gray or two. I’ve been coloring my hair since I was 16, so I’m faced with 2 choices:

1. Keep coloring it; why stop now?

2. Be hard core and embrace my gray and let it shine.

The Hub says I’m being vain and that I should just show my gray. But I say by stopping the coloring I’m acting differently because of it. What do you think?

I don’t want to be bothered by gray hair, or by aging, but it’s definitely on my mind these days. And I’m not ready!

How do you deal with aging? Do you embrace it gracefully, or fight it, kicking and screaming?

Yesterday, the power went off in our neighborhood. And every neighborhood in San Diego. Not to mention in parts of Mexico and Arizona. 5 million people had no power. Ours was out for 9 hours.

Besides the fact that I was minutes away from participating in a Tweetchat for a client, the daytime part wasn’t bad. All the neighbors sat outside while the kids played. It wasn’t 100 degrees, like the day before. I, being Susan, brought wine (and got looks from certain neighbors).

Cell phones weren’t working, and The Hub wasn’t home. Finally, much to my relief, he arrived. It took him 30 minutes to come home from the gym. It should have taken 10. He said the streets were clogged because there was no power for the traffic lights.

We have a gas stove, so were able to eat dinner. And we did what any other red-blooded American family would do: we ate as much of what was in our fridge as we could to save it. Like Skinny Cow and garlic bread. Just doing our duty.

We talked in the garden as the sun set. It was lovely. Max slept downstairs, since it was too hot upstairs. We grownups went to bed early.

Not too bad an experience, but of course, I was stressed, wondering what would cause such widespread outages. 9/11 came to mind. Schools for Friday were cancelled.

The power came back on at midnight.

I wish the story ended here. I do.

We have an alarm system that’s not connected to a service. We’ve never touched the thing. The box started beeping when the power came back on. The Hub tried to figure out the code to shut it off.

Then the entire house alarm started shrieking. At midnight.

I waited for the neighbors to come over to see what was going on. Especially in light of the fact that we actually were robbed last year and no one did a thing. Nothing. No one even called the cops.

Max was panicking. I couldn’t think for the damn alarm. Finally, The Hub cut the wire on the alarm. Ah. Blissful silence. Still, it was hard to go to sleep.

Wow, right?