Hello. Is anyone there? Maybe this will be easier to start if I don’t think anyone is actually reading it. Or is it sad? I don’t know. That may be one of those chicken or the egg questions—is it sad because no one is reading? Or is it not sad because I don’t know that no one is reading?
Anyways. Let us begin this little adventure. I am Becca. I am a late-twenty-something, self-proclaimed weirdo. I love cats, Harry Potter, coffee, my husband, pull-n-peel Twizzlers, dance parties, and a slew of other random things. (In case my husband reads this—this list of things I love is not in order. I do not love coffee more than him. I might love cats more than him, though. JUST KIDDING, HONEY!)
In recent weeks I’ve felt a pull to start writing again after an almost two year hiatus, and in the last few days, for reasons I am sure I don’t need to spell out for you, I have felt an urge to do something that makes an impact somewhere, somehow. I don’t really know where to start with something like that, but I’ve decided that maybe this is a start. Perhaps someone will enjoy reading my ramblings. Perhaps someone will hate reading this, but at least it might distract them from other things they hate. I would consider that a win-win situation.
I thought I would start this blogging adventure by telling a story. A mostly true, if slightly exaggerated story, about myself. I hope that this story makes you want to read more of my ramblings. If not, well, byeeeee.
NO, I’M KIDDING AGAIN. PLEASE READ MY WRITING.
So. Story time.
Our story begins at a time of high fashion: the year 2000. I was eleven, and trying to figure out who I was and how much of my weirdness I should allow the world to see.
My mom was working as a banquet waitress at the time, and on the day of our story, she was working. It was Mother’s Day, and we were going to go eat with her and the other families after the second brunch shift.
My dad told my sister and me to start getting ready, so we paused Grease to come back to later. (We were dedicated Pink Ladies in our youth.) I shut my door and started to get dressed. Going through my drawers I pulled out this super cute pink skort, which I never got to wear because I went to Catholic school and had to wear a uniform every day. Le sigh. It was a little chilly, so I put black stretchy pants underneath to keep my chicken legs warm.
Then, I put on my go-to baby blue Old Navy three-quarter zip sweater. When I looked in the mirror, I knew something was missing, so I walked over to my closet and found the perfect accessory: a baby blue visor with Angel in glittery writing across the front.
Still, though, I really wanted to look different than I did any other day. I knew this was my chance to show off my true fashion prowess. To show the other daughter from the banquet hall, who already had boobs, that I was cool.
So, with the visor on, I put my hair half up-half down, the hairstyle of the early 2000’s. But I didn’t stop there. I then divided my half up ponytail into three small ponytails, which basically stood up like little soldiers.
“I am so cool right now,” I thought to myself as I put on my Sketchers gym shoes.
When the look was complete, I called my sister into my room.
“Here,” I handed her my disposable camera, “take a picture of me.” I posed in front of my Britney Spears-covered closet door, next to my furry, pink, cube-shaped picture frame that held all of my closest friends’ most recent school pictures. Sixth grade. What a time to be alive.
My sister took my photo as I cheesed for the camera, and my dad called from the living room, “Bus is leaving in two minutes!”
After taking my precious camera back from my sister, I tightened my ponies, grabbed my lime green backpack-purse, and walked out the door.
My dad, being stereotypically oblivious to fashion, made no note of my outfit, and we headed to the banquet hall for brunch.
My mom greeted us as we walked into the party room. As she turned back to my sister and me after kissing my dad—in public—she looked at my outfit, and reached out to touch my ponytails.
“What is going on here?” she asked.
“I’m expressing myself,” I told her in disbelief—couldn’t she tell?
“What? Why?” she laughed and looked around the room, thinking, as I learned many years later (today), “My child is so awkward.”
I, however, pranced away and took a spot at the table thinking to myself that everyone must be admiring my individuality.
Which you may also now do, using the photographic evidence below.
In writing this post, I asked my mom what went through her head when she saw my look that day. She said, “I wondered what the hell was wrong with you, but decided if that was the worst thing you did, we’d all be ok.”
To which I responded, “Thank you for allowing me to flourish into the weird butterfly I am today.”
Never be afraid to be who you are. Even if you are an 11 year-old who wants to express herself. Especially then. Because this is me. Still today. I am currently wearing leggings with elephants on them and my hair on top of my head. I also really wish I still had that green backpack-purse.
If you have made it to the end of this post, thank you. I hope that you find my quirkiness entertaining. If you do—or even if you don’t—please come back and read. In a world that seems to be filled with more hatred as the days go by, I hope that my awkward anecdotes and ramblings can bring joy, acceptance, and love into the world.