Checkered-flag Bow Tie o’ the Day is protecting the innocent by hiding the identity of some unfortunate DHS boy who actually went on a date with me in 1980. I don’t remember which dance this was, but the brick wall tells me it was held in the old gym of the old DHS. I seem to remember we went 4-wheeling out by DMAD with another couple before AND after the dance. And then something weird happened, which I can’t seem to remember, and we ended up walking to my house, and then I drove my mystery date to his house.
Don’t think for one minute I’m not wearing a bow tie in this photo. If you look closely, you can see the girl on my sweater is wearing a pink bow tie around her collar. I find bow ties even when I didn’t know I had ’em. They’re just little pieces of the real me, showing up in my history. Some people’s souls throw glitter wherever they go. Apparently, I sprinkle a little trail o’ bow ties on my life’s journey.
The 3-D, pigtail-adorned sweater I’m wearing in this photo is one of my fave pieces of clothing ever. But I ended up wearing it only two or three times. You see, I have this stoopid tendency to “save” my best stuff (clothing, dinnerware, etc.) for speshul, bigly deal occasions. I’m afraid I’ll spill, snag, or otherwise ruin them if I wear them on regular occasions. And then, to compound it, I also worry the next speshul occasion will be speshul-er than this speshul occasion, so I should save the best outfit for the upcoming possibly speshul-er event. And so on.
Before I knew it, my pigtail sweater didn’t fit anymore: I had pubertied into a larger shirt size. My sweater was nearly pristine when I finally had to take it to D.I.. While it fit, I didn’t wear it and enjoy it as much as I could have. That means a gaggle o’ spectators couldn’t enjoy it while I wore it too. My decision to “save” it means I held back a bit o’ joy from others and myself.
We forget that every minute we’re alive is a speshul occasion, and we should wear our best stuff every day if that’s what we want to do. Each of us is important enough to deserve to do speshul stuff just for our own tiny selves. We don’t need to be in front of a grand audience before it’s okay to dazzle and shine while we walk across a room.
We don’t need to feed speshul guests at our table, to use the good plates and cups. We– and the folks around us who love us– are speshul too.
