I wrote a blog about a year ago talking about if the type of music you listen to defines the type of person you are.
And it makes me think, if your everyday life, really incorporates that as well.
When I was in high school, I dyed my hair outrageous colors I changed my style of clothes on a weekly basis, my group of friends changed based on my school schedule. And everything about high school was about change, change, change. High school was about teaching us how to behave in the future.
When I dropped out of high school, I thought I was making the best choice for me, and I got a job. In my job, my appearance came to me by what position I held. I couldn’t dye my hair outrageous colors and my outfit changes were limited to my uniform. My face had to be clean with minimal amount of make-up on my face. Outside of work, I was still able to wear my cut up jeans, pleather pants with netted shirts, or exposing tank tops, and drastically high heels and no body gave a rats ass. As long as in work, I was appropriate.
When I got pregnant, because my body was changing, my wardrobe had to change to, but I still felt I had some individualism. Maternity clothes is not THAT bad. I wore regular clothes just a size or 2 bigger then I normally would. I stopped wearing high heels because I couldn’t balance myself on them. And this is just a normal day of my life.
When I got my new job, I was required to dress in professional attire, and there went all my jeans, tank-tops and they were all replaced with slacks and button down shirts. And for the weekends, the occasional slutty dress or oversized shirt with the proper belt to be made into a dress. My hair had to be kept in tack, and professional attire was strongly encouraged. No uniform this time. This is stuff I had 2 invest in, and do for myself. And little by little my style became that of a working mom! And the high school me, was vanishing!
As I left that job and went to a job that encourages personal identity, it downs on me…..what is MY identity? My wardrobe still reflects the working mom. I don’t own a pair of sneakers, and most of the shoes I have are flats, sandals or shoes with a barely there heel.
I’m only 22!!!!!!
When did I start dressing like a woman of 32???
And I start thinking to myself,….who am I?? Now that I’m allowed to express my individuality again? I want to dye my hair a crazy color, no restrictions. I want to pierce something out of the ordinary. I want a new change of outfits, and I want my shoes to show off my legs.
But what’s the balance?
When I was 16 it was ok to dye my hair purple, blue, green, pink, red etc. I was trying to find myself then. When I was working, these colors were not ok, because it gave the illusion of a regular person, instead of an employee.
At 16, my outfit fit the mood I was feeling and the friends I had.
As an employee, I was no longer me, but I worked for them and was under there control.
So I think to myself. I want to dye my hair crazy, bottle beach blonde. This time, no judgment from my boss!!! I want to pierce my tongue and my lip, no judgment from the person who signs my checks. I want to wear plether pants with platform boots and netted shirts, with no judgment from the man upstairs.
But then I think,……how ridiculous am I going to look, a 22 year old trying to dress like a 16 year old.
Now that I’m in school, I see a bunch of 18/19 years old dressing like they belong in an episode of Sex and the City. All of them wearing heels, all of them wearing designer shirts. Call me old fashion, but I hate the way they dress. It looks like they put more of an effort on how they dress, then the actual school work etc. And then I see myself, wearing jeans, flats and a tee, and lately with an old navy hoodie for guys. These girls are only 19 years old. That’s 3 years younger then me! Who are they? Have they found themselves? We’re not that far apart in age, but it seems that there head is more entact to there body and they “know” who they are.
But I’m not only 22 years old. I’m also a mom. I don’t want to dress ridiculous and be an embarrassment for my son. When you become a mom, the first rule in the “Mom manual” is “it’s no longer about YOU.” And “everything you do is a reflection of what your child will grow up to be.” So if I dress carelessly, are his teachers, friend’s parent going to think any less of me? Will they think that I’m naïve for denying my age? Is my son going to look at me any less, if I dress more like a “person” instead of a mom? Do I have to wear “mom” high waisted pants and knitted sweaters, just to emphasize the mom-factor?
I’ve been having an identity crisis lately. Everything that I’ve ever done, or however I have dressed or acted, has always been influenced by my surroundings.
I can’t seem to find the middle ground. I’m supposed to be a free-spirit, student and a mother. Where is the clothing department for that?!? If that high-waisted skinny jean with nike heels, and a knitted, netted sweater??? With minimal make-up but “snooki” type hair???????????????????????
Until Next Time
Archive for October, 2010
October 8, 2008, if memory serves me right it was a Wednesday. That’s when I realized how much I truly hated hospitals.
Every night before I went to sleep, I would spend time with my husband and
son, who at the time was only 8 months old and very fascinated with the world. I would eat, shower go to sleep, and begin the cycle all over again.
Except this Tuesday night, I had been so tired that I didn’t take a shower before I went to sleep.
On this particular day, I had woken up early so I can take a shower. It was about 6:30am and my husband agreed to take my son to my grandparent’s house, where they watched him while I went to work, so I could take my time getting ready to go to work.
At about 7:10am, I got out of the shower, finished doing my hair, brushed my teeth and selected the clothes I would wear, I hear some maniac ringing my door bell, I rushed to put on pants and a shirt and ran downstairs to the door. I run to see my downstairs neighbor and 2 cops at the door. Apparently the cops rang both our doorbell because they didn’t know what floor my husband lived. They asked me if I was his wife, my initial response to cops, “depends on what this is in regards to.”
Yup, those were his exact words. I’ll never forget them.
“Was anyone else with him? Or was it just him? Where was it?”
Of course that ran thru my head because he had JUST left the house with my son in his care.
“No one else was with him, he was by himself. This occured on Atlantic Ave and 76th street. Would you like to come with us to see your husband?”
What the fuck? That was 3 blocks from my house on his way to the train station. I guess it’s true when they say that accidents happen within 10 miles of your own home.
“Yes, let me go put on some shoes.”
I replay this day in my head so many times, that sometimes it feels like it was just yesterday. I had black slacks on, and a blue button down shirt. My hair was wet, which later dried and was curly. I was sitting in the back of the police car, and crying as I called my boss and told him I wasn’t coming to work. I called and called and called my mother with no luck. I called my aunt, with no luck! I finally texted them both “My husband has been hit by a car, rushing to the hospital now.” Then I received a call from my mother wanting to know how he was. I was calling to make sure my son was safe and sound with her. I called his mother with no luck! I called my husband’s boss to let him know he couldn’t come to work, under the circumstances.
And I finally get to the hospital.
“Uhmm excuse me, where’s my husband?”
The heavy set lady with an Ellen DeGeneres hair cut at the opposite side of the desk said, “He’s in trauma.”
WTF? Trauma? What was wrong with him? How bad was he? Was he ok?
These were all questions I was asking myself, but if I’ve learned anything, is that people in the hospital hate dramatic people and prefer to talk to level-headed people.
I go into trauma, look for my husband, and here he is, in a stretcher with a neck brace holding his back in place. Half his face was scraped, he was in a hospital gown with swollen arms and legs. For a person who was a pedestrian, he looked like he was just in a fight, not hit by a car. Thank God for that. I hear him saying something, this entire time not crying, “Where’s my wife? I want my wife!” And I cried. “I’m here babe, don’t worry. You were just hit by a car, you’ll be fine.” He finally saw me, and kissed me, “Babe? Where am I?” And I couldn’t stop crying. “Stop crying baby, I’m fine.” I finally did stop crying. I stayed by his side the entire time, and every 4 minutes, like clockwork,..”I want my wife. Where’s my wife?” I asked the nurse if that was normal that he didn’t know where he was or who I was. She told me that with the trauma he just experienced it would be likely that he would never remember who I was.
So I played along with it. Everytime he asked me where his wife was, I would tell him over and over, that I was right there next to him that I had just gotten there. Every time he asked me where he was and what happened, I told him over and over again, that he was hit by a car while he was crossing the street. It got to the point that I felt numb to the memory. And it’s only been a few hours.
I finally got in touch with my mother-in-law. And the first thing my husband said to me, “don’t let her know we got married. She’ll make sure I stay in the hospital permanently” (We “eloped” btw lol).
When he came home 2 days later, he was in such a daze, he didn’t remember where he was, where he had just been, what had happened. But at least, he knew who I was this time. He couldn’t have our son around because it hurt him so much. The noise my son would make, carrying my son, it hurt him so much. I decided to send my son to my mother’s so I could tend to my husband during this time.
This was by far, a Traumatic experience for me. Seeing my 6’4 foot husband become practically helpless. And living everyday with the reminder of his pain. Everyday a new pain comes about, a failure in his memory hits me and affects us deeply.
I had to rush my husband to the hospital, and it was the same experience. I felt like it was a deja vu moment for me. I was rushing into the emergency room looking for him, trying to figure out what room he was in. I spoke to the same heavy set nurse with blonde Ellen DeGeneres haircut. She told me he was in Trauma again. I walked into the trauma room and I felt like I was stepping foot into the past. The doctor was the same as it was that day, the set up was the same. I even told my husband where his bed was. He didn’t even remember being in this room. I tried my hardest not to cry, but feelings of almost losing my husband were more visible then ever. The security guards were the same, and even the same security guard came to tell me that I couldn’t sit on the bed. The only difference with this time, is that I got to take him home. Little did I know, that this deja vu moment, would not be the 1st time I would feel it, and I’m sure that it won’t be the last time either.
Until Next Time