Struggling through with joy... |
kind of.
Struggling through with joy... |
Yesterday was Wacky Wednesday at the school where I teach. Anyone who teaches elementary or preschool is familiar with these sorts of days: Pajama Day, Crazy Hair Day, and Hat Day, which is my personal favorite. I don’t have to wash my hair? Awesome! Fifteen extra minutes of sleep!
I have what is known as Big Hair. It’s thick, coarse and naturally curly. This type of hair takes a while to wash and gallons of product must be applied to prevent me from looking like an angry alpaca or a whitish, less attractive Diana Ross from the disco era. However, it’s perfect hair for Wacky Wednesday, when we were charged with wearing mismatched clothes and crazy hair to honor Dr. Suess, surely a man who could appreciate such things. Unfortunately, I don’t get to skip out on my other, non-work obligations when I dress up for such things. One year I too a student to the emergency room wearing sock monkey pajamas. In the middle of the day. Thankfully, this look is not unfamiliar in the emergency room. Crazy hair and mismatched socks are not the fashion of the day for the mothers at the preschool my son attends. They tend more towards expensive yoga pants or the kind of jeans not sold at Target. Or anywhere else in the midsize town where I live. All these moms are at least ten years younger than me and still care about things like fashion and having hair that’s combed. AND styled. On a daily basis. It’s taken two years to get some of these moms to say hello to me. Most of them are like me: shy and kind of in a hurry. Only a few are haughty. When I loped across the preschool parking lot in my worn Danskos with one “Adult in Training” sock and one polka-dot sock proudly on display, my normally crazy hair even crazier than usual in two huge, ratty buns that looked like they were styled by aggressive sparrows, I was not surprised to get a furtive glance from a haughty mom leaning on her Cadillac Escalade. “Are you going to yoga class?” she asked her friend whilst giving me side eye. I fantasized about waving my arm wildly in greeting and shouting, “I’d love to join you!” I thought about how much I don’t belong with many of these moms, with my awkward tendencies and advanced maternal age. I giggled to myself as I pictured their discomfort showing up in constipated smiles. I’ve always been a little on the outside, especially in this town, which is where I grew up. I don’t agree with the prevailing philosophies of many here. I spend a lot of time keeping my mouth shut. I moved away for twenty years and discovered I was a bit on the outside in other places too, even places where I do agree with the prevailing philosophies. It’s just who I am. The brilliant thing about middle age is how ok I feel about that now. Those haughty ladies in the parking lot can do their thing and I’ll do mine. They’ll smile at me eventually, even if it’s just because I look like a crazed bag lady taking her kids to school.
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