I first saw it on a quick run-through trip to my neighborhood Walmart. That oxy-moron should have been the first clue. There is no such thing for me as a quick run-through Walmart.
But, that no longer matters.
What matters is, I saw it, I loved it, I bought it, thrilled at the bargain price.
And since then this soft white, angora Gilligan-type hat has turned into a matter of contradiction for me on so many levels.
From the moment I put it on, I felt fun, sporty, and (okay, I’ll admit it) cute. The one thing I did not feel was fifty years old (but that’s another blog).
Since that moment in time, I’ve had confirmation (“Oh, you look so cute in that hat!”) to confrontation (“I can’t hear what you’re saying. I’m too focused on that white fuzzy thing on your head.”). One person told me, “It makes you look young.” Another said it made me look like an 80 year old person of color.
One of my loving daughters put it this way: “It makes your face look fatter.”
BTW, she’s out of the will.
Even my very own Pastor Steve has expressed repulsion nearly on the same scale as his aversion to country music.
I’m toying with the idea of buying a hat just like mine for his wife.
The crux of the matter is this: I love my hat. When pressure is stressing me, I can reach up and touch the soft fuzz and be instantly transported to my happy place. One would think that is a good thing for everyone involved.
Alas, no.
I love my hat but my loved ones do not. What’s an anal retentive, compulsive people-pleasing codependent to do?
Well, I’ve decided this is where I draw my line in the sand (sand, of course, since if I make a mistake, I can always rub it out).
I love my hat. I will wear my hat. I will enjoy my hat.
Besides, Punxsutawney Phil has said there’s only six more weeks of winter. In Arizona time, that’s only four more days. I think I can last that long.
Maybe.
Abundant blessings!
Jenny
