All it takes is going away to make a new house feel like home and a shiny but scary new neighborhood feel like a "welcome home" sign. Whatever I said in the past about feeling odd in this wonderful new town of ours was silly. It is just as wonderful and wretched as any where else in the world and my silly attempt to come to terms with my new neighborhood was no different from the way I reacted in 6th grade when I realized that nobody but me still liked Hong Kong Phooey. I judged everyone in 6th grade for all having the same lunchboxes by imagining that they were judging me and then retaliating by not bringing that lunch box to school anymore. (I showed them). I think they call it pre-emptive defenseiveness in the Hong Kong Phooey martial arts studio I attended. As you probably suspected if you read my "I had a Dreamsicle" post, my insecurity probably had nothing to do with anyone judging me, our car, or my lunchbox. Though I am sure some did and do, the only thing that matters is what I think of my lunch box. (Hey, that is a very clever and accurate description of our mini-van. I drive a giant ugly lunchbox!)
Because I promised to do so in this blog, I feel I have to tell the truth. The truth is, I did not really have a Hong Kong Phooey lunchbox (but I did love Hong Kong Phooey too long). I thought it made a good story and a good point. I did however, have a purple pleather peace sign pantsuit that my mom made me. I picked out the fabric and I loved it and could not wait until she got done sewing it. I looked amazing in it, until I wore it in public. The reviews were not good. I never wore it again. I had brand new bright green Puma tennis shoes too. I was teased so much about them that they mysteriously disappeared on a camping trip. (My poor, poor mother). I sure wish I had those things today. Those gifts lovingly made and bought by a mother willing to over ride her artistic sensibility and good taste symbolized something far more valuable than anything I received from the 6th grade fashion police when I handed over my originality along with my classical record collection.
So it is in my hardwiring to care what someone thinks about what I am up to. I'm surprised I am still working on this at my age. I think somewhere inside me I do know better than to cringe when I see our van in our driveway. Sometimes I just forget to remember that what something means to me is more important than how it looks to mean people. Or, how much I love the stuff inside makes the outside stuff lovely enough. It's mind over matter. If I don't mind what anyone but me thinks of my matter, then the matter I mind won't matter as much anymore.
Maybe I'll paint some purple peace signs on my van.
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