Back in Black

For at least a good year, there exist no pictures of me wearing an actual color.  I lived entirely in black.

I wasn’t one of those goth people.  I didn’t wear black lipstick or white face paint.

I was just in black – always.

School, clubs, dances, church, my sister’s wedding shower and rehearsal dinner – all black.

And all with combat boots.

Again, let me repeat that I wasn’t a goth.

I’m not sure what inspired this.

My love of weird music?  A Sweet Valley High book?

Whatever it was, I was all ‘Hey let’s listen to Jane’s Addiction and dress like we’re funeral bound!’ for way too long.

As you can see, it’s a very flattering color for a girl with my skin tone:

And I look nothing like a mime here:

Oh good – here’s a glimpse of the boots:

That was apparently my favorite dress, because I’m not sure I ever took it off for at least a 6-month span.  I’ve been photographed in it all over the country, from my sister’s wedding rehearsal (where she was none too pleased that my boots made an appearance) to church to dances… it was my little black dress that wasn’t so little.

{You might recognize some of these people. They’re famous now.}

Can barely see eyes…

Even more pathetic unusual is that I appear to be wearing the same necklace with the same dress in all of these pictures.  Not too creative, apparently.

You know, when you find what works and all.  Don’t mess with perfection.

Yeah, black is definitely the way for a milky white girl to go.  A walking study in contrasts.

Especially with an overdose of hair.

You cannot even see detail on my face because I am so pale.  I actually reflect light.

What would really finish this off beautifully would be if I had pictures of some of my other go-to looks.  Like cutoff Daisy Dukes, worn with black fishnets and combat boots (natch).  Or when I dyed green streaks in my hair.  Or the purple, red, and blue ones.  Or when I pulled it all up into a ponytail, and shaved off the lower part.

You know, like this

I was a weird girl.

But not as weird as the guy I dated once, who sported a mohawk like this

And I mean literally once, because when my dad met him.  Well.  That was the end of that.

I believe a direct quote would involve something about ‘ripping that earring right out of your ear, son’ and possibly a shotgun.

Come to think of it, that guy could have gone in my Bad Judgment post too.

I’d like to say that I’m older and wiser now…but somehow I’m afraid I’m just older.

And PS) I still love black. Some things never change.

Edit – last minute addition – I almost forgot about these.  A chorale concert, I think, and my mom tried so hard to get a decent picture of me.

It wasn’t working though – you can barely see a glimpse of my face at the corner of the music stand.

A little closer, but nope, still covered.

But at least she can snap one of me when I walk down the aisle!

Sadly, no – I looked the other way, and I stuck out my tongue.

‘You with the tongue Heather.  Why is your tongue always hanging out?‘

Sorry Mom.  I blame MJ.

And since I know you are wondering, yes, actually I was wearing the black dress [and combat boots] under the black robe. Why wouldn’t I be?

Formals gone wrong

One big area where I’ve consistently embarrassed myself is formal wear.  Part of it was the times, for sure.

{Quick, name me something you wore in 1989 that wasn’t hideous!}

But also, I always made my own dresses.  At least twice a year I set my creativity loose and designed and made my own formal wear.  And let’s just say how very ironic these pictures are, considering I now design children’s clothing.  Clearly, my artistic vision has changed over the years.

Take this monstrosity, for example

Hello, everything red ever made!

I had no ability to edit.  I loved red and I was ready to show the world.

It’s a darn shame this picture doesn’t capture my red earrings, red shoes, and red purse.  I can’t say for sure now because my brain is very old and tired, but something tells me my underwear wasn’t white.

And my date for said prom (who is probably reading this and laughing at me right now…or possibly feeling relieved that his picture isn’t here, forever attaching him to crazy red blob girl) was told specifically to bring all red flowers.  I feel strongly that he also should have sung ‘Lady in Red’ without prompting, but that didn’t happen.

With or without the prompting.

Seriously dude, could I have dropped any more hints?

And what do you think that look on my face is about?  Is it, ‘Mo-om, stop taking pictures of me!  I’m super cool and you’re making me look like a dork here!’

Or was it ‘I know that my former BFF is behind me and she looks sooooo much better in her ruffled cupcake dress than I do in my big red blob. Plus her hair is bigger than mine! Dangit!’

[I'm struck by irony because as I write this, the last song we ever danced to came on Gen X radio.]

The next year I’d like to say I learned something, but, um, not really.

Enter ‘faux sequins’

Oh, and also the first time my hair went brown, though this time it was accidental.  I have to accept responsibility for all future misadventures with a bottle.

Note to self: If you don’t have the patience to hand sew thousands of individual sequins, then pick another style. ‘Sequin-like fabric’ is in fact nothing at all like actual sequins, and very, very tacky.

Lesson learned.

Prom that year went better.  I lightened up on both the color and the bling.  Unfortunately, I lightened up all the way to white, which makes it look like I was a teenage bride.  And judging by my date’s ball cap, I’m thinking this wasn’t the wedding of the century.

White – not a good color for a pale, sickly girl.

Try again – Cinderella Ball, the following year.

Ok, so the color is better.  But the hair?  The hair is not good.  And also, looking back at this and knowing how old I was in this picture, I cannot believe that I wore/my parents let me wear a dress that low cut.  It looks like the see-through fabric stops just shy of my navel.  Klassy.

[And lest you think less of me, the date was just a friend.]

I reverted to my old ways for the next prom, too.  Wedding #2

Two minor changes this time.

1) I wore Ivory instead of white.

2) I knew I’d be shaking my booty all night and had the good sense to wear sneaks.

My only regret here is that they weren’t Chucks.  Or combat boots.  Either would have made for better pictures.

Have I ever told you that I wore tennis shoes under my wedding dress, too?

In college I seemed to learn my lesson.  I looked much better…but had dates that I couldn’t stand to see again, so you won’t be getting pictures there.

{Besides Jen, this is really all for you, and you’ve already seen the worst of that.}

Bad Judgment

In oh-so-many ways.

It started young, when I was sporting a polyester leisure suit at my birthday party

Now this doesn't date me at all...

And it just grew from there.

For example, the date that felt chinos and no socks would be appropriate for a semi-formal.

No socks.

Who does that? Blech.

But hey, remember when boxer shorts as attire was popular?

No eyes when I smile. Seriously.

Yeah – me either.  But it certainly helps to make them look cool, the way I have them hiked up to my armpits.

Dear Heather,

Circa-nineteen-whenever-overalls-were-popular

Overalls – not good.

Moving on…

Where to even begin with this one?

Pretzel legs

Oh, I know – how about we start with the pictures of the creep plastered all over the wall behind you? Bad. Judgment.

Also, you are still wearing boxers, and you still have no eyes when you smile.

Oh, and this?

Driving Miss Daisy

You are at least 20 years too young to wear a dress with a matching shirt.  A dress that stops mid-calf, AKA the least flattering length known to man.

And it’s amazing this one didn’t get me arrested

Sullying the good name of Nemo

since quite obviously, I appear to be pants-less in Disney World.

I’m not, for the record.

A – Not fat, just pregnant. I know I say that a lot, but it’s true.

B – Wearing short shorts

C – Wearing my husband’s pullover which is way too big for me

D – Too stupid to look in a mirror

I had that ‘too stupid’ problem here, too.  This is the day I learned that when taking pictures, your neck should be pushed out, not pulled in.

Hello, double chin!

Dear Heather,

Shield your eyes from the glow

Don’t take pictures in the pool unless you’ve discovered the sun.  Or at least a decent self-tanner.

I’ve had several [failed] attempts at hat-wearing

But at least I don't have poodle hair!

Am I playing dress-up here? Why are the clothes hanging off of me?  Gross! Eat a burger, pronto!

Let’s try again

The furry scarf really sets it off, don't you think?

Ok there, fatso. Back off the burgers now.

Maybe feathers would be better?

Practicing my routine for Vegas

As it turns out, no. And where are my darn eyes?

The mortification fun ends here today.  More kicks to the gut laughs tomorrow!

Makeover Monday: My Hair

My friend Jen has been on my case about the ‘serious’ nature of my writing recently.  At her request, I am lightening up.  And because I once embarrassed her so badly she cried [and then tripped and fell down the stairs in front of a guy she was trying to impress, which of course made me laugh hysterically, and then she cried harder, because her friend is a jerk and also her finger was broken] – I owe her.

Welcome to ‘embarrass myself’ week.  Because Jen?  I love you that much.

I have issues with my hair.

I was born with quite a lot of it, thick and bushy and black.  I’m not sure why, but it’s a family thing I guess – my daughters were just the same.  It never fell out either, just slowly turned to blonde.

The problem is that when I was a child, I was a tomboy.  I had no patience for ribbons and bows, and I couldn’t be bothered to brush it.  My mom’s solution?  snip, snip

First with the too-short, uneven bangs

Age 2

It got a little bit better (read: less crooked)

Age 4

So of course that had to be rectified pronto

Age 5

For a couple of years that shaggy, mullet-like cut stayed

Age 6, and inexplicably petting a dead bird

[Man, I totally rocked the velour tummy shirt. Go me.]

These experiences scarred me.  I was like, 12 when I finally got my hair to grow out.  And there was no stopping me then, baby.  I was all, my hair is never going to look bad again!  Which is why even when playing basketball, I was fully curled and plastered with hair spray at all times.  Sweat couldn’t stand a chance against a half can of Aqua Net.

Big hair

[I'm just gonna go ahead and apologize for that whole 'global warming' thing, if you believe in it.  There's no doubt that my 4300 cans of aerosol hair spray had something to do with that.]

Eventually I gave up the big curls, and traded (up?) to extreme length

I could almost sit on it. For real.

Enough already Heather.  Get a haircut.

19 inches later

Oh hey, that’s not half bad. [Except for the coat. #9, AKA The One Who No Longer Exists]

Thankfully I got rid of that good haircut ASAP – wouldn’t want to look normal for too long.

Not fat, just pregnant

Nice headband.

Hmmmm….maybe shorter would be better?

Shortest hair of my adult life

Yes, that is better.  It must go.

I have no eyes when I smile

Curls – because that’s never worked before.

Ok, try again.

Again, not fat, just pregnant

Yes, that’s better.

Let’s ruin it.

Failed attempt at shag

Note to self – you are not nearly as cute as Meg Ryan and you cannot pull off her haircut.  Also, you look fat in that outfit, and you don’t have pregnancy as an excuse.

Princess Leia hair

Note to self – you aren’t Carrie Fisher, either.

Perhaps the wrong hair color would help?

Reddish-brown - not good

Maybe I should just give up, and sport nothing but ponytails and twists.

Present day

How much worse can it get?

Humiliation – we’ll be here all week.

What If

Mama Kat – who by the way, sort of rocks – does a Writer’s Workshop every week.  I almost always play along, though more often than not, I do not publish them.  Not here, anyway.

I have a tendency to pick the most difficult prompts.  The brutally honest, no-holds-barred kind that are hard for me to get out and even harder to let go of once I do.  It’s therapeutic to write, and I’ve done this as long as I can remember with no need to broadcast it to the world.

But sometimes – sometimes – I wonder what would happen if I did.  What if I really did put it all out there, warts and all?  What would people think?  Would those that love me, stop?  Would they think that they never really knew me at all?  Would they be relieved to know that someone else thinks the same way they do?

I hold myself back for two reasons.  First, because if my life were ‘Sense and Sensibility’, I’d rather be Elinor than Marianne.  I’ve been Marianne and gotten burned.  Better to keep a tight rein on your emotions, I believe.  And second, because I have a ‘fake it ’til you feel it’ policy that I apply to instances when I fear my natural instinct might lead me astray.  Sometimes faking the right thing helps me feel the right thing.  Sort of like plastering a smile on your face until you actually feel happy.

So if I stopped holding myself back, what I might be putting ‘out there’ could be too much.  Too revealing, too personal, too hurtful.

Today isn’t the day I stop holding back, just in case that’s what you were waiting for.  But I wanted to share with you the prompt that rocked me last week.

1.) Lou Holtz (don’t ask me who that is) once said, “life is ten percent what happens to you and ninety percent how you respond to it.” Do you believe this? Describe a time when you feel like you could have responded a different way and produced a different outcome.

Can you imagine the possibilities here? For 6 days now I have been considering the many directions my life could have taken, had I just done any one thing differently.

Every reaction, every decision, perhaps even every ‘avoidance of making a decision’ produces an outcome, so there are myriad opportunities for change.  One little choice that might have made all the difference in the world.

As a person who has always been intrigued by the concept of fate, this prompt especially appeals to me.

{Maybe I am revealing too much.  Fate and Christianity don’t necessarily go hand in hand, do they?}

Yes, there are many ‘What-Ifs’, and this past week I undoubtedly spent too much time considering them.  But introspection can be healthy, right?

Now I just need to look for the learning.

If you’d like to try this out yourself, Mama Kat posts her prompts on Tuesdays.

As Good As I Once Was

I had an interesting conversation with an old friend last night, and I’ve thought about it all day.

It’s not the first time this has come up recently.  In fact, my fabulous friend Tracy even wrote about it a few weeks ago.

Age.

Aging.

Ageless.

An interesting concept, but admittedly not one I’ve devoted a lot of time to considering.  I’ve never been concerned about my age.  I really don’t care that I’m getting older.  I’ve never minded the changes that come with it, either.

The forehead wrinkles, just starting to form

The bags under my eyes, even on the rare occasion I’m wearing makeup, because I no longer have the luxury of sleep

The stretch marks on my hips that helped me usher 3 little lives into the world.

{I’ll spare you that visual. You’re welcome.}

Although I’ve not yet seen a gray hair, I really don’t care if they come, either.  Vain I am not.  I gave up vanity years ago, when I discovered that I actually like myself just as I am, and I don’t have the time/money/energy to doll myself up so others do, too.   This is it, people – take it or leave it.

But then the conversation.

It was accidental, really – just where the flow of the words took us.  And I’m sure I won’t remember the exact phrasing, but it was something along the lines of, “It’s just kind of depressing to realize that this is it.  I will never look or feel any better than I do right now.”

Well when you put it like that…

Yeah.

Humph.

So it is kind of depressing, isn’t it?  This is it.  This is as good as it gets, from here on out.

{Thanks so much for pointing that out, too, by the way.}

What makes that hard for me to accept is that I don’t really see myself as I am, even now.  I still see this girl

while sadly, the rest of you see this one

The woman you see is older and wiser, no doubt…

But the girl I see is a whole lot hotter.

And today, I am just vain enough to miss her.

I ain’t as good as I once was…and I’m not sure that I’m as good once as I ever was, either.

Drat.

In which I pack my bags for Australia

I pride myself on strange things.  Like my childrens’ musical repertoire.  Or my ability to spell repertoire.

My girls can and will happily sing on command such varied music as Springtime for Hitler (Broadway-The Producers), Ring of Fire (Johnny Cash), To Make You Feel My Love (Bob Dylan), R-E-S-P-E-C-T (Aretha Franklin), Leaving on a Jet Plane (Peter, Paul and Mary),  Country Road (John Denver), Single Ladies (Beyonce – and this one they did not learn from me…), and Big House (Audio Adrenaline).

This pleases me. No Kidz Bop in my house, thankyouverymuch.

I also draw great satisfaction from my ability to swat flies.

For real.

We live in farm country, and while the horses and cows and chickens on the farm behind us are lovely to look at, they do attract unwanted pests to the area.  In the summer time they are so thick sometimes you can barely stand to sit outside.  Of course that could also be because of the oppressive humidity (Hello, yesterday’s heat index of 113 degrees!)

They fail to mention these things in the Kentucky travel brochures.  Little publicized fact – bluegrass, bourbon, and race horses bring with them heat, humidity, and flies, my friends.  Enter at your own risk.

So I’ve honed my flay-swatting skills.  I’m not exactly grabbing chopsticks yet, but I dare say Mr. Miyagi wouldn’t be too disappointed in me.

Yesterday I killed 37.  Inside our house.  How gross is that?

[Not as gross as not killing them, I assure you]

But at least we could sleep in relative peace.

In mentioning this to a friend from Down Under, I learned that I am living in entirely the wrong place.  Not because of the flies, either, but because there is nothing I can really do with my talent here.  Sure, we can eat dinner fly-free, but that’s a fleeting satisfaction.

Apparently if I relocate, I can turn my skills into a real, productive force.  Introducing the Aussie Competitive Fly Swatting experience.

I knew I was in the wrong place.

Actual photo of me swatting fly. Seriously.

In which I make you feel like a great mother

 Yesterday was a serious Mom Fail.  And I really have no excuse.  We were busy?  I just forgot?  My brain has been replaced by marshmallow fluff? (which incidentally, I don’t even like)

Yesterday was Catie’s end-of-season soccer pizza party.  And I was the assistant coach.  And I totally forgot to take her.

That’s it – I just forgot.  At party time, we were either sitting on the porch watching the rain, or blowing bubbles to see how long they would survive amongst the raindrops.  That was the pressing appointment that kept us from her soccer party.

And also kept her from receiving her medal.

Thankfully for me, she has not yet realized we missed it.  Unfortunately for me, she will be none too happy when she does.  Considering she also missed last fall’s party.

I feel just awful about it.  But in reality, this is not the first time – or the biggest time – I have failed them as a mother.  In ways big and small, I screw up daily, and pray nightly that the damage I do won’t be permanent. 

Moms are in a tough position.  There is a perfect Father, but there is no perfect mother.  So I can’t even say, “Hey kids, I’m sorry I’m such a trainwreck, but look here! Here is someone who did it all right!  Don’t look at me, look at her!”

Nope, only dads get that privilege.  I’m left to do the best I can, carry lots of guilt, and apologize profusesly, hoping that’s enough.  But of course I know that it isn’t.  I know I’m a mess.  That nightly praying to be a better mother?  Not so much nightly, since sometimes I’m so exhausted I fall asleep mid-prayer and don’t even make it to that part. 

Hopelessly Flawed.

All of the craft projects I come up with and the handmade clothes I make the girls draw lots of compliments from people we meet, but what they don’t know is that sometimes I’m a grouch the entire time we’re making the craft, grumbling over spilled glitter and fussing over painted-on clothes.  Sometimes I make them play outside so I can sew in peace.

I hate it when someone admires their outfit and says what a good mom I must be.  The outfit has nothing to do with anything.  What good does a cute dress do when your mom neglected you to make it?

My own mother says I remember my own childhood through rose-colored glasses, and while I don’t really believe her, a not-small part of me hopes that it’s true.  I hope that she did lose her temper or get impatient or say ‘no’ a little too often, because I don’t remember it at all and that gives me hope.  Hope that one day, maybe my own daughters will block out my shortcomings and remember only the good moments.

Of course, the very real possibility exists that I’m right, that I did have a fabulous mother, and that I am falling hideously short.  And that’s what keeps me up at night.

It all comes down to patience, I think.  If I were more patient, everything would be better.  Except I’m not [generally] all that impatient.  And I know all about not praying for patience because then you’ll get things that help you develop it.  I don’t pray for patience.  And I already have that development tool in the form of my husband.

But I’ve gotten sidetracked, haven’t I?  The whole point was to make you feel like a better mother by exposing what a lousy mother I am.  (Because let’s face it, no matter how awful it is to admit, we all like to feel like we’re better than someone.  No one wants to finish a race last.  No one wants to be the fattest woman on the beach.  No one wants to be the worst mother in history.  It’s true – don’t even try to deny it.  It’s not that you’re wishing ill on someone else, it’s just that you need someone or something to make you feel like you aren’t so bad, and you certainly could be worse.  Like her.  I get it.)

You know how sometimes you’ll hear someone say that they aren’t winning any Mother of the Year awards?  Just this week I read a Facebook status from a new mother who was devastated that she bopped her child’s forehead with the plastic wipey box. 

Are you kidding me lady? 

My children have rolled off the bed, rolled off the changing table (yeah, yeah, never step away, I know), fallen down stairs, had their heads bonked into a doorframe while I was carrying them…and that’s all within the first few months of life.  I couldn’t even begin to name the rest of that list. 

When Annie was 6 weeks old I was nursing her in the middle of the night, and I fell asleep and dropped her.  Onto the hardwood floor.  True story.  She cried for a few minutes but then went back to sleep, so obviously it was a life-threatening concussion and my child might never recover.  So like any new mother, I rushed her to the emergency room of the nearest children’s hospital.  Where they were much more concerned about the woman sobbing hysterically than they were about the baby sleeping peacefully.  And they laughed and hugged me when I asked if they were going to call CPS.

Live and learn.

So I promise you, my story isn’t one of those lame, ‘we’ve all done that’ stories.  Oh no.  This is a mom failure that is nothing short of spectacular, and it is previously unconfessed [publicly].  So read it and feel fantastic my friends, because you surely are a better mother than this lunatic.

Annie was about 3 and solidly in the middle of her asking-a-thousand-questions-a-day phase.  It was annoying, but only because I had no idea how much worse Catie would have it.  If I’d known I would have counted my blessings back then.  So we’re out running errands, and I’m losing my mind.  I’m in my husband’s compact car because our van is in the shop, it’s hard to get her in and out of the back seat, and I’m hugely pregnant.  And it’s hot and humid, and pouring down rain.  It was a trying day – that’s my only excuse.  Somehow we landed on the topic of the weather, with Annie asking a hundred questions about how rain is formed and why it rained and when it rained and what if it rained.  No newbie to this, I had learned a long time ago that if the answer was God, she stopped questioning. 

Where do babies come from?

God.

Worked like a charm.

But in my harried state that day, I didn’t stop to consider my words before they exited my mouth.

But what if we don’t want rain?

God knows what we need better than we do.  He sends rain for a reason.

But I don’t want it to rain!

Well God doesn’t care what you want.

Whoops!

-backtrack, backtrack, backtrack-

I meant, God doesn’t always give you what you want, He gives you what you need.  And sometimes you might think He is making a mistake, but He isn’t.  He never does.  So you just have to trust Him.

And mentally I added and please forgive me for being such a horrible jerk of a mother.

I mean seriously, what kind of slimeball tells a 3-year-old that God doesn’t care about what they want?

Oy.

So take comfort in knowing that no matter how you’ve messed up today, at least you’re not that bad.

You’re welcome.

On my heart today

If you need prayer, I might not be your girl.

Sounds terrible, right?

I don’t mean it to, honestly.  I would be happy to pray for you, whatever burden you are carrying.  The problem with me is, chances are, I’m not praying the way you’d like me to be praying.

On Wednesday nights, our church has ‘Go! night’, where folks break off into different teams.  Some go out on home visits, some send cards to shut-ins, some have a bible study, and some pray for the prayer requests we have received.  I’ve been going to the prayer group, but every week I first find myself praying about whether or not I belong there. 

I don’t consider myself a prayer warrior.  I pray fervently, but I also pray differently. 

I question if different is better.

Many years ago, a tragedy struck our family.  The kind that shakes you to your very core, and changes who you are forever.  The kind of thing that is virtually unspeakable, because the words bring more pain than one can bear.

When we were in the midst of this, I cried.  I sobbed with the kind of gut-wrenching wails that sound inhuman, and I prayed more and prayed harder than I ever have in my life.  I was desperate, and terrified, and unable to do anything but pray.  I begged for a different outcome.  I begged for something to change.  I pleaded for a miracle.  As desperate people do, I asked that I be taken instead.

The outcome remained the same.

I was not taken. 

And although I now have three beautiful daughters who would not be here had my ‘deal’ been accepted – I still mourn that loss.

I still can’t talk about it.  Still can’t find the words to offer comfort to those who need it most.

I know that is selfish of me, and I am ashamed of that.

Hopelessly Flawed.

My faith was not shaken by this event.  They say when tragedy strikes, it either destroys faith or makes it stronger.  It made my faith stronger.  But it also made me realize that I need to change the way I pray.  Change the things that I pray for.

It isn’t easy to do.  It’s human nature to pray for what we want.

Please God, help me find a better job.

Please God, let us get that new house we want.

And there’s nothing wrong with that, per se.  The Bible does not tell you to keep your thoughts to yourself!  Scripture tells us that God knows your heart.  He knows your desires, your secrets, your burdens.  He wants a relationship with you.  He wants you to bring everything to Him – everything.

Yet I can’t seem to do that anymore.  I’m not trying to hold back, but I am trying to reshape my heart.

I’m trying to let go of what I want, and want what He wants instead.

I don’t pray for a specific outcome anymore – I pray for His will to be done.  I don’t pray for healing, I pray for courage.  I don’t pray for a lighter load, I pray for a stronger back.

I feel bad about this sometimes.  A friend will ask me to pray for something, and instead of praying for what they want, I pray for God’s hand to be in their situation.  That isn’t exactly the same, is it? 

I’m still weighing this, whether I should switch to a different team.  And I’m still praying about it.  And I’m still happy to pray for you, too.

Just as long as you can accept that we don’t always get what we want.

In which I dis everyone’s favorite place

con·trar·y

–adjective

1. opposite in nature or character; diametrically or mutually opposed: contrary to fact; contrary propositions.

2. opposite in direction or position: departures in contrary directions.

3. being the opposite one of two: I will make the contrary choice.

4. unfavorable or adverse.

5. perverse; stubbornly opposed or willful.

I freely acknowledge that I’m a bit contrary.

It’s not that I want to be difficult.  I don’t mean to cause a problem.  And I’m a displaced Yankee Southern lady, so I certainly wouldn’t want to be any bother. 

I’m just…different.

If everyone is doing it, I’m probably not.

If everyone likes it, I probably don’t.

It’s just the way I roll.

I’ve been like this forever.  When Commodore 64 was all the rage, I was lovin’ my Texas Instruments.  When NKOTB had all the girls squealing, I was discovering Leonard Cohen.  While my friends left high school for college, I took a year off and weighed my options.

Contrary.

I never liked the popular guys in high school, never swoon over dreamy movie stars.  I’ll take me the offbeat brainiac in the corner anyday.

 Now let me warn you, several of you are going to be upset with what I’m about to say.  I know for a fact that a couple of you might even feel physical pain at what I’m about to tell you.  Allow me to apologize in advance.  I don’t mean to upset you.  And I’m not insulting you personally.  This is a macro situation.

As an adult, perhaps the biggest evidence of my contrariness (is that a word?) comes in the form of my shopping habits.  The great divide between myself and my friends is Target.  You know, the ‘discount’ store that you all love.

Guess who doesn’t?

Tar-jay.  Gag me with a spoon, people.  Target is the store that sells cute stuff for twice the price you could get it elsewhere.  (Cue the parade of loyal shoppers declaring that is so not true)  Every time I hear a Target person make fun of Wal-Mart, they cement my love of Wal-Mart and disdain for Target a little bit more. 

I know your opinion of us.

But as a Wal-Mart person, I can tell you that we have opinions of you, too. 

We think you’re snobs.  We don’t like the way you make fun of Wal-Mart, and drink your ridiculously over-priced coffee while you look down your noses at us.  We think you’re not nearly as smart as you like to think you are, since we buy the same products on rollback.  AND, we think the fact that Target does not allow the Salvation on their property is really, really crappy. [Yeah, I went there.  Again.  Stop me when it fails to be true.]

But how often do you hear a Wal-Mart person saying all that?  um, never.  Wal-Mart people can’t get away with it.  Yet it’s common and apparently perfectly acceptable for Target people to belittle us.

Target people, you know how you say that Wal-Mart is dirty and people there are rude?

Wal-Mart people see your store as putting on airs and your people equally as rude, but catty about it.

I don’t know why this little piece of retail real estate has come to mean so much to me, but it has.  Don’t even start on all of the things that are wrong with Wal-Mart corporation - I know.  And I could give you a Target laundry list in return.  I’m not debating the morality of big business here, I’m talking about the day-to-day attitude of the public.

The ‘Target is where it’s at’ mentality.

Maybe that’s why I’ve declared myself firmly in the Wal-Mart camp. 

I’m contrary like that.