Tiny little boxes.
As I’ve grown older and experienced more, I feel like my IDGAF meter has gone up exponentially, mostly in relationship to the opinions of others. I think I’ve always been a bit like this, but after the death of both my parents a few years ago, something changed dramatically in my relationship to seeking approval for my choices, being what society or love ones expect me to be.
My parents were much more traditional than I’ll ever be. My mom with her china (that was never really used) and lace table cloths and her penchant for gardening and baking couldn’t be more different from me. A cousin recently found her wedding shower and announcement from the 60s, recapping the red roses that were present (not a fan myself, but rock on, Hattie), and the fact that her shower was a kitchen shower, something that was likely a dream of hers but sounded horrific to me. When planning my first wedding, I unironically showed her several black and fire-engine red dresses I liked. She was not amused. When I divorced seven years later, I really thought she would disown me. I was almost right.
It took time and therapy to learn that she wasn’t trying to control me. In her mind, convention and tradition was the key to keeping me safe, protected. She had a tumultuous childhood, her mother dying when she was young, her father an alcoholic pushing her and her siblings to fend for themselves at a young age. To me, it felt (and kind still feel) stifling. Her traditional life was likely a dream come true for her. I couldn’t be happier for her or more grateful for the safety and stability of my childhood. But when I divorced, I asked her, “Did I ever talk about marriage and kids in my childhood?” She had to admit that I didn’t.
Maybe there’s always been a touch of unsettled rebellion in my soul. But the older I get, the more gratitude I have for the windy, untraditional road I’ve traveled. Along that path, I’ve to defend so many elements of myself that are authentic to me – hair colors, clothing choices (I once wore black leather pants to panel at a very traditional financial conference), relationship choices (way younger and considerably older mates), and the arm sleeve I started at age 45. Now, I did wait until my mom was deep into her dementia to get my first tattoo, but still.
Even with her gone, I still feel the many ways the world tries to put us into the tiny boxes that may not ever fit, or for others of us, they fit for a moment in time, but not for the people we are today. I’m grateful for the fact that toward the end of her life, she not only understood my choices, but began to appreciate them. But even if she didn’t, the most important thing is that I do.
