Dining in a restaurant with my daughter recently, I learned a lesson in perspective.
Since it was two hours past the noon lunch traffic, there were only a couple customers left in the restaurant–us. So it was pretty darn quiet. We spoke across the table in a normal indoor voices.
They came in laughing, jolly, and bounced me in my seat as they banged into the booth behind me. A young male voice said, “Gee, thanks, man. I really appreciate you helping me pick out these clothes. I look good, don’t you think? I really feel good. I do.”
Mm. Now that’s just the kind of thing that might cause a curious person to turn in their seat. But I didn’t. Instead, I bore down on the wells of my daughter’s eyes, hoping to fish a reflection from the pool of her pupils as I wondered just what had made this young man.
“Did the eagle land?” I asked her.
“Huh?”
“Did the goose lay the golden egg?”
“Mom! What in the world are you talk–”
I shook my head to shoosh her, “Never mind.”
She chatted while I stared, searching, searching into her contact lens for just a tiny hint. I could tell I made her uncomfortable when she adjusted her eyebrows at me, shook her head, and shrugged. I knew what she was thinking: What’d I say? Now what’d I do?
I stretched my neck toward her, intentionally, no longer a partner in chit-chat, unable to explain how caught up I had become in that voice behind me–so earnest, excited, grateful. C’mon–you’d have done the same. She chattered, unobservant, while I took long draws off my iced tea and searched her eyes.
“I’ve never felt this good in anything I’ve ever worn,” he was saying. “Do you think anybody’ll notice?”
Hel-lo!
I’m not a clothes person. I slap on jeans and dig for a shirt–my uniform. Most of my wardrobe works great in the garden. How could those bugs and birds and plants recognize me any other way? When have I ever dressed for success? One pair of jeans is pretty much like the next, right? Sure, I know cool threads make a person stand taller. Everybody likes to feel they look good in their clothes. But–what?
I didnt’ get up from the table to go to the ladies room; I didn’t drop my napkin and turn circles to retrieve it. And I certainly didn’t flip around–I’ve outgrown that habit. But these guys had energized me like a fly to a bug zapper.
They were busy eating, talking, laughing–enthusiastic and loud, discussing how clothes make a person, how lucky he was that his friend took off work that day so they could shop.
We finished our meal. I stood, stretched, and as inconspicuously as I could, slowly turned.
I don’t know what I thought I’d see–I’d never finished that scene out in my head. But sitting in the booth was a young teen, his eyes obscured under a snow-white hat that was a cross between the kind Robin Hood wears and that of a Miami bread baker. It could’ve been the ceiling light hanging over the table that shined down on him, but the hat kinda glowed, reflecting his white vacation-style shirt –the kind guys wear/buy when they visit another country, except he’d tucked it into black checkered pants. Yes. A white belt wrapped around all nineteen inches of his waist and matched his, you guessed it, white shoes–not the athletic type. A feather of a moustache laid across his young lip like paint-by-number.
He was just a kid, and I know kids love funky hats. Heck, I love funky hats. But, I’m sorry, he looked like a shyster. The mother in me wanted to holler, “Do you know the first time you reach for your hat, YOU’RE GONNA HAVE FINGER PRINTS ALL OVER IT? BEGINNING TODAY? He couldn’t know how badly I wanted to wipe that smear off his young lip with my spitted-finger and send him to the bathroom to wash.
But I am shamed. How is his coolness any different than when I had that favorite robe? the quilted one I wouldn’t throw away? the one I’d slashed off at the knees? the same one I finally had to hold together with safety pins because my mother didn’t sew–even buttons–so why would she replace a zipper? when I seemed happy and well adjusted, enough?
And how about when I ironed my straight hair straighter? That’s a sight to behold–laying your hair across an ironing board while ramming a steaming hot iron toward your face. My hair would be so straight the only part sticking out was my ears, which never tucked into any hair style. And didn’t I cut my jeans off into shorts, like everybody, which had to be washed until the unhemed leg parts fell into longs strings? It was important to get that right.
How’s this guy’s look any different than wardrobes from the 70’s –yup, our guys wore white belts, white shoes, and white polyester slacks. And not only did their pockets show through, but when they’d sweat in the Texas heat, or it poured rain, their underwear did too.
As a parent, I didn’t lie to my kids when they began to dress themselves and asked, How’s this look? They didn’t always like the answer, but they could count on the truth, even if it was my truth, which didn’t mean they’d go back to their room to change. Favorite is favorite, even if it’s the favorite plaid shirt mingled with fav-tri-colored, ripped camouflage pants, or best purple socks with fav-orange and green trick ‘r treat shorts. I had to remind myself, Hey, didn’t I buy ’em?
I can’t wait until my grandkids get old enough to take hat shopping. I can’t wait until they ask, MiMi–how do I look?
What Other People Do 