I guess that’s what you’d call me.
I never have been one to really care about my clothing choices – if it’s comfortable, I wear it.
I’ve always had a bit of the old Sensory Processing Disorder. I don’t like the feel of seams on my body, so the striped rugby shirts my mother used to make me wear were endlessly uncomfortable. I can’t handle excess lotions or cream between my fingers, and scratchy wool isn’t my thing.
Oddly, I hate being without a belt. I like the snugness that the accessory provides. I always feel unfinished in track pants or mesh shorts. I like cargo shorts with belt loops. Go figure.
A long time ago, I fell in love with Hawaiian shirts. I had a closet full of them. I even carried the monniker “Hawaiian Ryan” for a while. I decided to embrace it – my email was email@example.com. You can’t make that up.
Anyway, flash forward to today. I donned my silky soft, dark blue with pale blue shirt that I picked up in a touritst trap in Florida this summer. It’s longer than it needs to be, so I tuck it in. And use a belt. Duh.
I meandered into the kitchen to find Olivia glaring back at me with a look of disgust. “What?” I asked. “I don’t like that shirt,” she replied. “It’s OK, it just needs to be tucked in,” was my argument. “I don’t think that will help,” she countered. She followed up with,”When you get home from work tonight, I’ll help you pack your bag for Portland this weekend. I’ll take care of you.”
When did my Pippi Longstocking/Punky Brewster daughter become sufficiently well-versed in fashion rules that she would take to dressing her own father? Was it her tenth birthday? Her new admission into middle school? Who knows? I do know that Olivia has never donned two articles of clothing that, to my eye, have had anything to do with one another. But, apparently, I’m hopelessly unfashionable.
I’ll let you know how packing for my trip goes later.