Something Old

Last night I folded about 27 loads of laundry. Seriously. Between friends, family and work I am that behind on the domestic front. I gathered up two hoodies and went to hang them in the front hall closet. As soon as I opened the door it became apparent that there was no way I could fit another jacket in there let alone two.

So began the organizing. That was going well, but I still wasn't creating space, just reshuffling what was already there. In the next instant I was calling my kids out of their rooms, mind you it's 9:00PM, and ordering them to participate in a fashion show of sorts. I even had them trading jackets, which turned out to be quite fun.

We finished piling their jackets onto the "keep" and "give away" stacks. Then it was my turn. The first jacket I tried on was a red & black nylon jacket. I paraded for my daughter, "um...you sort of look like a super hero, Mom." "That could be good though, right?" "Yeah. Not in this case." Dejected I threw the jacket in the "give away" pile. I slid hangers across the rail. And in the back. On the right side. Against the wall. Was my mother's blue corduroy barn jacket. My mother died in August of 2007. I inhaled and wasn't sure what to do. I wasn't even sure if I should touch it.

It eventually occurred to me to exhale, and I reached for the coat. It was soft; the brown suede collar worn and faded. I held it up to my nose and inhaled again. Oh. Even after two years, it really did smell like her. I slid the coat around my back, put my arms through the sleeves, stuck my hands in the pockets and pulled it tight. My right hand fingered something soft. A kleenex. I pulled the tissue out of the pocket and help it up. Her lipstick. A perfect imprint of her blotted mauve lipstick. Most likely three years old.

The coat didn't fit me, and I probably wouldn't have worn it anyway. I took it off and laid it carefully on the "give away" pile. And the kleenex. I moved it from hand to hand, tracing the outline of the lipstick. I let out a little whimper and put the tissue in the trash. I have to keep practicing the process of letting her go.

I turned back to the closet, exhaled hard, and slid the jackets across the rail again. I pulled down my old jean jacket and tried it on. I didn't much care for the cut and the sleeves never were exactly right. I shoved my hands in the pockets - well, because when we're trying on clothes, pocket-shoving is what we do in a last ditch effort to talk ourselves into keeping something we don't really like anyway.

In the right pocket, was a kleenex.

Photo courtesy of The Enabler

Apart From -

My friend, Sterling, has written another illuminating blog post, which I am once again hijacking for my own purposes. Sterling discussed women’s fashion: who decides, who plays and who cares. I strung together a few ideas to post as a comment, but after typing two paragraphs I thought about something else…

I thought about Friday afternoon. I took my 12 year-old son to a Vans store for shoes. It’s been more than two weeks so he had yet again blown through his kicks. Honest to god I think his voice is changing too. I rarely restrict my kids’ clothing choices. My son’s situation is slightly different. Because he spent so many years away from school and school playgrounds, and the fact that he doesn’t understand his peers, I do intervene every now and again. “Are you sure?”

“Why do you care what everybody else thinks?” And then we had to go there…

“Buddy, the only reason I care is because you already feel apart from.” I told him that there’s a difference between doing his own thing and feeling rejected, ostracized and less than. Unfortunately, social acceptance is often determined, or at the very least influenced, by external presentation. I completely support his choice to wear whatever he wants, and if whatever grief he got wouldn’t crush him, I’d buy him any pair of shoes he wants. I told him that he needs to find an acceptable level of rejection and self-acceptance that allowed him to express himself.

Sterling was talking about women finding identity, power and acceptance as a matter of fashion; I was having the same conversation with my 6^th grade boy. My son wants to step on the playground before morning bell to smiles that say “cool” and not “idiot.” He wants to have the confidence that Lilly has with Her Purple Plastic Purse – to wear her proverbial “crazy sunglasses and red cowboy boots” not in defiance but in freedom. We all struggle to find just the right measure of self-expression and conformity. And I imagine that for some of us that still looks a lot like it did in middle school.