This I Believe: The Fun Party Shirt

I believe in the Fun Party Shirt.

It's customary on our high school campus for athletic--and academic--teammates to wear matching tee shirts, sweatshirts, or uniforms to school on competition days. In a slight twist on tradition, last week the members of the boys' lacrosse team all donned Hawaiian shirts. None of them matching, the shirts were a panoply of color, cheer, individuality, and team camaraderie.

Hawaiian shirts as a genre have evolved beyond simple floral or tropical themes; some of them almost tell the story of an experience or place. Many are outlandish in color and detail.  The lacrosse boys' outfits reminded me of the power of the Fun Party Shirt. I can't remember when it was--high school, maybe, or college--when I bought the embellished or bright or ruffled shirt I dubbed the original Fun Party Shirt. My family soon came to recognize and anticipate me and the Fun Party Shirt in attendance at social events. 

The Fun Party Shirt is an item of clothing you don't think you need. Sometimes trendy, often outdated; found on sale, in a thrift store, or inspiring a splurge, the Fun Party Shirt is always fancy. It's a departure from one's usual style, an attention getter.  It's the textile version of a huge grin. 


Cultures with their own versions of the Fun Party Shirt include the Philippines, with the barong, and Latin America and the Caribbean, with the guayabera, which appear to be influencing American men's fashion:  lately I see men wearing embroidered long-sleeved Fun Party Shirts (with varying levels of comfort and often at the suggestion of their significant others). 

To me, part of the beauty of the Fun Party Shirt is that it involves taking risks with both one's personal wardrobe and social conventions.  I think it's a worthy alternative to wearing--or buying--a dress or tie to a semi-formal occasion.  And then there's the beauty of the Fun Party Shirt itself, because by definition, it exudes joie de vivre, dabbles in iconoclasm, and boasts some form of bedazzlement, embroidery, or ruffles. It distracts from pimples and bad hair days.

It's a beautiful thing to see someone rocking a Fun Party Shirt, someone feeling good and therefore looking good. Someone planning on a good time.  I want to high-five my friends in Fun Party Shirts.

But there's a line, of course, between Fun Party Shirt and Outrageous Fashion Disaster (cue Seinfeld's Puffy Shirt, which was more fun for everyone else).  One should generally choose one's own Fun Party Shirt, with encouragement, not bullying, from a friend.  And then step lightly into the arena in which one's fashion calls attention to oneself.  I recommend an occasion for the Fun Party Shirt where the shirt itself is in attendance to honor the occasion or host.  This is how the Fun Party Shirt makes friends and spreads good cheer.  I believe sporting a Fun Party Shirt to dinner or a friend's birthday imparts special meaning to the event. Casual Friday at the workplace?  The Fun Party Shirt with jeans shouts "TGIF."  An unexpected Fun Party Shirt suggests that any day is going to be a good day.

And I believe in wearing a Fun Party Shirt to memorial services, though I'm not always brave enough to slip one on.  Memorials leave me inspired with better ways to live, communicate, and acknowledge the people around me.  Loved ones who've passed have lessons to impart, and that's cause for celebration for the rest of us; we live better for their having lived.  I wear my gratitude with optimism and resolve to appreciate all that I have.  The Fun Party Shirt declares I'm alive. 

But if the Fun Party Shirt doesn't feel right, isn't an extension of you, consider Fun Party Jewelry, or the Fun Party Tie.  Try Fun Party Shoes, too.  When in doubt, though, the Fun Party Smile suffices, because ultimately,  "it's what you wear from ear to ear, and not from head to toe, that matters."

The Scarlet Pimple

Big Sis has a pimple on her nose. It's notable, right smack dab in the middle of her allergy-induced nasal crease.

She had a pimple last month, too, on her cheek. So when I saw this one, I groaned inwardly. Really? Already?

My dismay comes in part because I am forty, still with pimples and now with wrinkles, wondering why I couldn't trade one phase for the other inevitable one. I wish for my daughters the clean-palette skin of a fresh-faced Noxzema model, the complexion I never felt I had, despite the mildness of my acne for most of my life. My pimples were enough of an issue in my teen years to garner the attention of dermatologists and the then-new technologies of Retin-A and topical antibiotics, but nothing worked better than letting my skin just be: washing it, drying it, and then liberating it from my nervous, probing fingers. My daily routine of wearing makeup now is a function of my lack of confidence in the beauty of my own bare skin. I shudder that I might project "skinsecurities" on my daughters.

I don't want to make a mountain out of a whitehead. But I found myself cringing at the possibility that little boil atop Big Sis's nose represented the frontier between worlds of innocence and confidence and of peer ridicule and self-consciousness.

Lo and behold, she came home from school yesterday reporting that two boys pointed out her pimple in class. She promptly but unemotionally tattled on them, and they were scolded by their teacher.

No one, my daughter observed, makes fun of the boy in her class with a birth mark, though, or the girl in class with a skin condition. I would hope not, I told her. We often can't help how our bodies are--tall or short, slight or ample, clear-complected or blotchy, including all parts or missing some.

My second grader, who wears unmatching socks and prints, patterns and florals, with hair loose and unkempt or in wacky braids or pigtails and who has a refreshing sense of her own style, is too young for pimples. She is too young to worry about her appearance and to wonder what others might think or say.

And in not so many words, she reassures me she is too young to worry about pimples. Because she isn't worrying. As tempting as it was for me to squeeze both the pus and potential insecurities (most of them mine) out of that zit, we taught her to clean it with soap and leave it alone. She has. She's even, I daresay, forgotten about it.

Because other things are more important to her, like Pajama Day at school tomorrow, and what we're having for dinner. A fourth wiggly tooth. Her latest drawing and her little sister's kindergarten shots.

Pimples, she convinces me: easy come, easy go.

Bring Your Updog

"What's 'updog'?" you ask.

I don't know!  What's up with you?!!

I revive that silly joke every couple of months with the girls, because it never seems to lose its hilarity with the elementary school set. 

What's up with this dog, though?  I know; I haven't written in a week!  I've been cooking curry, building more sandcastles, running, getting to know my newly-minted five-year-old (geez!  Five comes in like a lion!), having sleepovers, connecting with former students who need a little TLC, and, well, doing laundry and emptying the dishwasher. 

Speaking of emptying the dishwasher, I thought about writing about Marital Stalemates this week.  You know, the silent detentes that occur when neither partner cares to complete a task and both parties passively/aggressively work around it? 

For example, my husband will wash many dishes rather than empty the dishwasher and reload it.  And, on occasion, I will pile on.  Eventually, someone breaks (or occasionally a dish). 

There's something more reassuring than annoying, I've decided, about recognizing the silent dialogues which occur in the context of a marriage.  The paper towel roll, for example, placed next to but not into its holder, utters a familiar refrain.  As does the pile of clean laundry I shove back in the dryer versus fold when friends come over.  The lone beer bottle in the fridge...or the last beer taken.  The reusable grocery bags waiting by the front door to return to the car trunk.  The dog needing to go out and the child awake in the middle of the night.  My parents employed rock-paper-scissors for diaper changes, etc.  Tag, you're it, we mumble as we roll over or lie still, feigning sleep.  While the other sighs and gets up. 

The whisper of exasperation but ultimate patience we have for each other is actually...wonderful. 

That's all!

Happy Birthday, Boodles

My baby, you're five today.  Five!  A whole hand.  Take that in your face. 

Five means kindergarten.  Five means no more toddler bed.  Five means reading and writing.  Five means a fistful of minutes, hours, and days you clutch as you wriggle and leap from my grasp.

This year I watched your babyhood fade and the big girl grow, your legs longer and leaner, your senses keener, your observations more insightful. 

You asked for these footy panda pajamas for Christmas because you know how they make you snuggly and still young, which you will always be.  But each night, like clockwork, you yell from your bed that you're hot, and I yell back the same suggestion:  take your jammies off.  And so you do.  Only to wiggle into them again in the morning after you emerge from your bedroom, half naked and bleary eyed, to give me a hug. 

We claim that you're delightfully easygoing, our go-to gal for going with the flow.  But when you're grumpy, watch out.  You still know how to throw a cringe-worthy tantrum and you're no fun on too little sleep. 

There's a certain self sufficiency to you that catches us off guard.  You put your stuff away.  You know where to find things.  You taught yourself to tie your shoes, to ponytail your hair, to fold your clothes.  And then you ask us to brush your teeth, in case we're wondering if still you need us. 

You kick our fannies at concentration games (how do you DO that?); you are the master of goofy faces; you're a sweet caretaker of children younger than you; you know just how to push your big sister's buttons. 

You love penguins, pizza, sweet stuff, dolls, "flatted" blankets, tunafish, shoes, leggings, your cousins, holding hands, and poring over family photo albums. 

You're a loyalist at heart, dear Bear--forever ours, but already your own.

We love you.  High five!

Happy Valentine's Day

Don't be afrayed, strong heart. 

"Let yourself be silently drawn by the pull of what you really love."  --Rumi

Card Someone

A former student of mine sends me (and others) postcards now and then as part of her own "Postcard Project."  Sometimes the brief message is a non sequitur, sometimes it's a sweet greeting, and sometimes it's an update on her life or inquiry into mine.   

My creative friend is a poet, editor, and "stationer"--see her line of cards and paper here.  She's inspired me to send her some postal love in return, so before the holidays I bought a set of 100 "Postcards from Penguin," featuring book covers from the publishing house.  I am setting aside a few minutes--on Monday mornings in particular--to send off a couple cards each week. 

To initiate your own postcard project, you need only a roll of postcard stamps, a stack of postcards (you may even have some squired away somewhere), and an inclination to snail mail someone from time to time.  It feels good, I tell you!  And it's cheap and easy.  I've enjoyed looking for the right card to match the right sentiment for the right person (for example, the postcard featuring the cover of the novel 1984 went to my best friend, with some thoughts on what "Big Brother" might have seen if he were watching us back when we were in 7th grade). 

If you need more immediate gratification than sending postcards to friends and hoping they'll respond in kind, check out Postcrossing or The Postcard Project.  My former student introduced me to Postcrossing, and in high school she was one of the students intrigued by PostSecret, a website which publishes postcards created and sent by anonymous contributors revealing secrets (watch out:  it's a voyeuristic window into rooms that are usually locked...).

If you're feeling really crafty, make your own postcard and mail it.  And if you're feeling creative, go all metaphorical and "send" a postcard from a figurative place (as I had my creative writing students do).  Think about where you are right now, and where you could write from (for example, to my forty-something self, from my self in college).  What would you tell your now self from your then self?  What would your now self tell your future self?  You could also write from inside your brain or heart, from "in limbo," from dire straits, from the crossroads... 

Anyway, I would keep some postcard stamps handy.  Just sayin'. 

Forty!

No longer fumbling, I am firmly forty today.  I'm rocking a head cold, a sequin shirt, some grey roots, and a lucky-to-be-me attitude.  Because I still feel 32. 

To prepare for the transition, I ditched the lipstick brush and Pilates videos, but piles of papers and clothes await my attention--a testament to the fact that I'm really still me, whether I'm 22, 35, or 40 years old. 

Tonight, I'm going home to have dinner and a movie snugglenest with my husband and daughters; I can't imagine a better way to celebrate the passing and beginning of another year of my life. 

Here's to not fearing my forties.  Happy Birthday to me!

(and many more)