Lampe is a senior news-editorial and English student and a Daily
Nebraskan columnist.
By Heather Lampe
When I saw the piles of wet hair below my feet, I seriously
thought the hair dresser would have to help me to my car. You see,
on Monday I was possessed by some sort of demon who told me to chop
off all my hair. Now, here I sit feeling like a sheared sheep with
the realization that I can’t handle change.
I’ve been told a million times that life is about change and
that nothing ever stays the same. But despite how many sappy
balladeers croon this message to me, I refuse to accept it. The
only things I agree to change are my underwear and my sheets.
I have friends who enjoy change. They change their hair colors,
their majors, their boyfriends, their jobs. They find excitement in
new endeavors.
I’m the opposite. I revel in repetition. I marvel at monotony.
I’m scared of the new. I welcome change the way I welcome toenail
fungus.
Look at what happened when Coca-Cola tried to change to New
Coke. Their sales dropped, and they had to bring back Classic Coke.
Remember Crystal Pepsi? It tasted like hydrogen peroxide. Why don’t
these people know that you don’t need to change a perfectly good
thing?
Look at what happens when networks try to change the lead actors
in their sitcoms. I was distraught and confused when they tried to
infiltrate a new Becky into the "Roseanne" cast. And I’m still
bewildered when I watch a marathon of "Bewitched" and they play two
consecutive episodes with two different Darrens. She was a witch,
she would have noticed.
Change doesn’t work for entertainers either. Remember Debbie
Gibson and her lovey-dovey songs from the 1980s? She is now Deborah
Gibson. Last time I saw her on Regis and Kathie Lee, she was
attempting her new alternative look. Debbie, it ain’t gonna work.
We remember.
And remember MC Hammer? He had everybody dancing around in those
baggy harem pants. The last time I saw Mr. Hammer, he was trying to
portray a gangsta rapper. MC, I’m sorry but how can you be taken
seriously when several years ago, you had little white girls
gyrating at suburban proms?
I think my fear of change may stem from living with my father.
He isn’t one for change either. When you enter his home, you are
immediately escorted back to the 1970s.
The kitchen walls are covered in funky orange and brown boxy
wallpaper. The appliances are avocado green. The counters are
covered with that old Formica with little swirly patterns that look
like ring worm.
Dad has a good job. He could actually buy new furnishings. But
if he actually did get rid of the couch he’s had since I was in
second grade, it would mean he’d have to spend years lying on the
new one until the lumps and springs bulged out perfectly. It would
mean that my brothers would have to spend years perfecting the
grape Kool-Aid and nacho cheese stains that cloak its cushions.
Change just requires too much work for me. It’s too shocking for
my system. It’s possible that I could change my sedentary,
lard-filled lifestyle, but I’d have to change my habits. Change
like that also requires willpower, of which I have none. I can eat
healthy for about a day until those french twist doughnuts start
calling me from the refrigerator.
I suppose I must admit that there have been good changes which
have come along. Computers have been a good thing, except that the
technology changes every year. VCRs have been enjoyable, except
that you have to be a rocket scientist to program them. Take-out
and delivery food have alleviated my stress, except for the three
out of four times the delivery man shows up drunk and late … Hey,
I’m trying to be positive.
I guess if I can’t change, I will just have to live vicariously
through my friends.
"Oh sure Elizabeth, I think a bald look would be really good for
you … Volunteering? With children? Geez, Laura, how about if I
just give you some money? You can take them out for a Happy Meal
… You want to start running, Kelly? I don’t know. How about if I
just drive alongside you in the car and give you words of
inspiration?"