I’m sure most of us have gone through some type of rebellion against our parents. My big push was an army jacket I borrowed from a friend. Wow. HUGE. I was so dangerous. After about four days, my father pulled me aside and advised in no uncertain terms that he had seen enough of this jacket and I was to return it to whence it came. End of rebellion. But I found another way. A sneaky way. One he probably never even knew about. I refuse to roll my socks or fold my underwear. Am I bad-ass or what ?
It’s been a loooonggggg time since I’ve felt the need to really rebel against my parents. This could also be due to the fact that rebelling just wasn’t allowed. My parents had instilled in me a sense of consequence and fear so clear that rebelling didn’t really occur. I wasn’t mistreated, believe me. And my mom reads my blog so I wouldn’t necessarily divulge if I was (just kidding) but they did raise me a certain way with certain expectations. Rebelling was not on the list of acceptable things to do. At least not outright.
I never came home drunk. I never got busted by the police (in Canada anyway, but that’s another blog). I never brought boys home at odd hours doing odd things. I never shoplifted. I tried smoking for about an hour (super disgusting gross experience that really wasn’t worth the rebel). I never got pregnant. I never got suspended or really got in any trouble at school, though my mother informs me there was the time my kindergarten teacher was concerned about my advanced vocabulary. I’m not sure that counts. My rebelling was very on the down low as you can see.
One way I chose to rebel ? I decided to not roll my socks. I decided to not fold my underwear. I decided to not iron my sheets. I was fighting against the establishment through my linens and delicates. Sadly this is a true accounting of my rebellion. Did I get up to some mischief ? No more than most other teens do and most of which my mom now knows about. Things like crashing a dirt bike. Had some adventures with beer when I was old enough. Went to dance clubs in down town Toronto. Drove to odd places to take friends to meet odd guys that weren’t worth the gas or time. But my socks ? All over the drawer baby though always on the left. My undies ? Carelessly tossed in the drawer though always on the right . My sheets ? Gloriously rumpled though my linen closet is an exercise in organization. Even my rebellion has limits.
My point ? It struck me the other day that not having my socks rolled is a pain in my bad-ass. Now that I have a big girl job that requires me to dress professionally, I need my dress socks every day. And for the past two months, I’ve had to scramble to find matching socks. Wear mismatched socks you say ? What madness is this ? Are you crazy ? What kind of rebel do you take me for ? So I’ve given in. I rolled the damn socks together. I have to say the drawer and I are much happier. It might be a small thing but it was poignant to me. A sign that, at 42, I’ve grown up some. Matured some might say though some might not.
Now I have to find a new way to rebel. Something else to feel all bad-ass about. I’m not sure I can think of anything quite so diabolical as my sock drawer escapade. Though yesterday I did have Skittles and white wine on the same day. See ? Danger is my middle name. Maybe I need to work on this a bit. Any ideas ? To misquote The Wild One : “What are you rebelling against Elizabeth ?” “Whaddya got ?” Seriously, ’cause I have no ideas …