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I may be geeky, but you can't tell by looking at me.
I live in a resoundingly conservative area. A few years ago I painted galaxies on my shoes thinking I could get away with wearing them at work. After all, only a few star clusters showed at the hem of my pants. My boss almost passed out. That's just one of the reasons I mostly live under the radar. Much as I'd like to create an art car spackled with oddities I drive a car so boring it's hard to find in parking lots. (I console myself by covering my visor with pins like "Get out, I need to go to my mind palace" and "Why not ask a cephalopod?") And much as I'd like a yard adorned with robots made out of junk, so far I'm sticking to a single large mosaic I made out of broken dishes. (Although even that inspired my mail carrier to ask if we were devil worshippers.) Instead of a geeky tee I'm more likely to wear a necklace made of upcycled electronic components or steampunk locket by GeekMom artist Brigid Ashwood.
But I'm considering pink locks even though I haven’t seen anyone with non-regulation hair in our small town, passing through or otherwise. Action may be necessary after what happened the other day.
I was shopping alone, wearing what's too often a uniform for me: black sweater, jeans, clunky boots. I heard a stranger, at some distance, call out to someone.
Using the logic bestowed on most members of our species, I ignored her. I assumed she was hailing another person in the store. A moment later that stranger hurried up behind me and as I turned she said, “Oh, I thought you were my mom.”
I’m a warm and motherly person, true. But I was not that stranger’s mother. Worse, she was in my approximate age group. Which means her own mother either looks like someone who gave birth as a kindergartener or I look really old.
The stranger muttered something like, “Sorry, she has blonde hair too.”
Raised to be polite at all costs, I smiled reassuringly at her. Wouldn't want this stranger to feel badly about herself would I? (Fist shake at my Nice Girl upbringing).
Wait, it gets worse.
I saw her join a woman one aisle over. I witnessed her call this woman “Mom.” Her mother was clearly 15 to 20 years old than I. Wearing stretch jeans. With tennis shoes. And a quilted handbag.
Alas, I see I’ve fallen right into the basement of People Who Make Superficial Comments despite my regular attempts to be my Better Self.
I’m not mocking my elders; hell, I’m looking forward to being a rowdy old lady myself (which is how I’ll finally outgrow that Nice Girl upbringing). And I’m in no position to judge this woman’s appearance, especially after outing myself as a beauty flunky. As I tell my kids, everyone has a lovely gleaming soul. (Boy do they ever like to hit me back with that one when I get snarky.)
Keeping my more unusual side under wraps in Small Town America is one thing. But I’m finding the chronological escalator a bit too relentless.
When I was younger I took a constantly functional body and seemingly unlimited time ahead for granted. Now various parts creak and I realize I may not be able to fit all my enthusiasm into an ordinary lifespan. Sometimes I walk by store windows, noticing a short woman in the reflection. Who is she, I wonder? Why is she carrying my purse? It takes a moment to sink in. That’s me. I may feel like a fourteen-year-old sneaking out of the house in a halter top, but instead I’m some middle-aged lady wearing a scarf.
I was raised to use everything up. To smack the bottle till it was empty, then add a little water and shake it to get out the last lingering drops. I fully intend to do that with my life too. I’ll be using up every single bit. But if I get any more reminders about being old before my time, you may see me with pink hair. Or at least pink streaks. My quietly rebellious fourteen-year-old self would be proud. And the rowdy old lady I hope to become will understand.
