After I wrote my woeful “I’m having issues with the hippie chick and we haven’t even become friends yet” post, I got an email from my friend, Amy—no, not that Amye—who formerly lived in Mulletville. She wrote:
I read your post tonight and wanted to remind you that even if I don't have a child I still want to be your friend, and I wear yuppie sweaters because I too would like to wear funkier clothing items but am too uptight as well I know this is a very large run on sentence but I have had a lot of shiraz.
Ok, do we love Amy? Yes.
Two things struck me about her email. First, you don’t need to have children to be my friend—that’s madness. There’s an application form, yes, but you don’t need to have birthed anything to fill it out.
Second, Amy hit the nail on the head with the whole “too uptight” thing. I mean, that’s it. That’s why I’m not a mellow hippie chick. It’s not so much that I’m a yuppie; it’s that I’m too uptight, especially about my clothing.
And I know exactly whose fault it is.
My damn mother's.
When I was a little girl, my mother, Linda, loved to dress me in color coordinating outfits. A typical outfit was:
a) yellow and green striped shirt
b) yellow pants
c) yellow and green striped socks
d) yellow and green striped barrette
e) it’s none of your business about my underwear (but they were probably green with a yellow ladybug)
f) green shoes
I probably also only ate yellow and green food that day.
Up until the age of five I was a good little brainwashed minion, until one morning Lori Dixon announced at the bus stop that she had chosen her own ensemble. She was unkempt and her Mickey Mouse shirt was stained, but she was everything I wanted to be.
So the next morning, instead of wearing the clothes my mother had laid out for me, I selected my very own outfit. Because I was such a considerate child, I incorporated some minor matching elements to appease her hunger for matchy matchness.
My mother didn’t talk to me that day.
We’ve recovered from that incident, obviously, but as you can guess, Junior’s miniature frame has reignited Linda’s passion for dressing little people like freak dolls. Seriously. When she used to babysit Junior regularly, I’d come home to find Junior dressed in something entirely different—something matchier—than the perfectly fine outfit in which I’d dressed him that morning.
Understandably, it pissed off Chuck. So on the days she came, we intentionally dressed Junior in unflattering color combinations just to see her expression and to see how long it would take her to change him.
Some days I wasn’t even out the door.
But then Chuck got laid off. Linda stopped coming up, and Junior stopped wondering why he was getting dressed twice a day—once by cackling parents and the other by a zealous matchnut.
But then Chuck had his operation and became a bedridden sack and Linda started babysitting again. Just the other day, she took Junior back to her lair so I could have a night to myself. Sensing that she was hungry to clothe him, I let her pack his overnight bag. This is what she packed:
For one night.
The woman has issues.
So now you understand why every time I stand before my closet I long to pair that polka-dotted shirt with the plaid pants just because I can, but I can’t. The stripes run too deep.
P.S. I hope Amy isn't mad that I used her tipsy email. It was so cute I couldn't help it!
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.