A couple of months ago, my uncle reminded me of a piece of advice he once gave to me: “If you act crazy enough, no one will notice the color of your socks.” Now, if you are someone who wears boring socks every day, this might seem like irrelevant advice. I, however, went through an extended period (on the order of a few years) when I exclusively wore mismatched socks. This was not a casual, grab-two-socks-and-see-what-happens kind of thing either. My socks had to be the same type—ankle socks, fuzzy socks, toe socks (don’t judge), etc.—but had to be different colors or patterns. And they were crucial to my identity around fifth and sixth grade.
Our conversation got me thinking: as a 10-year-old, how much was I thinking about other people noticing my socks or really anything about me? I acted weird enough that people didn’t notice the color of my socks, but I also acted weird because the color of my socks was just one item on a long list of things I didn’t give a damn about. I mean, sure, I was quite shy in most social settings, but not because I was afraid of being judged. If anything, I think the socks made me feel better about myself. Maybe even more confident. It’s like I was saying, “Hello, it’s me, mismatched sock girl” (an excellent superhero name, if I do say so myself).
And then came middle school, that great abyss between childhood and adulthood. I was gangly and brace-faced and desperately trying to be anything but weird. The mismatched socks quickly went into retirement. It was my time to be “cool” and “mainstream” and just a little bit angsty. (Don’t ask me how that went. Did that work out for anybody?) My clothes looked a lot like everybody else’s, and that was pretty okay with me. I think I might have fit in, whatever that means? But now that I’m older and technically an AdultTM, I’d like to think that I’ve been freed from the constraints of a high school status quo. And yet, I’m often painfully aware of my actions, and I think this often keeps me from doing some of the weird things I’d like be doing.
To be honest, I think I’m missing the mismatched socks. Or maybe the socks aren’t the key part of the equation; maybe it’s just the kind of confidence I had back then. But it was probably the socks. Either way, I think it’s about time to embrace the weird again. To embrace the spirit of a ten-year old who somehow (probably because my TV didn’t get the Disney Channel yet) hadn’t been told that it was important to be cool. To bring back the socks, whether metaphorical or real, and start doing some of the things I’ve been missing out on. For example:
1) I want to dance when a song I like comes on, no matter where I am.
This might surprise some, given my graceful gazelle-like gait and my stint as a dance-pro imposter, but I am quite self-conscious about my dancing. I believe I have good reason to be: I’m uncoordinated, I don’t know how to move my arms and legs at the same time—you name it, I’ve got it. And I’ve never been a good dancer (I blame my parents a bit for not making me take ballet) but back in the day, I just didn’t care. My elementary school had a few rollicking dances in the gymnasium every year. My favorite? The sock hop, when I could spend all night hopping (probably literally) in my mismatched socks. Let me tell you, friends, the Chicken Dance was where it was at. I’m ready to dance with such inhibition again, even in locations that aren’t dark and don’t smell faintly like a school gym.
2) I want to hug my parents in public.
Remember when it was totally acceptable to hug your parents in public? When sometimes you hugged them of your own accord? And then you became a defiant teenager, unwilling to reciprocate hugs, rolling your eyes when approached by someone with open arms. But my parents give great hugs. I should hug them more, and not just hello or goodbye. I should hug them in the grocery store. I should hug them at Best Buy. I should hug them at Home Depot. I should hug them whenever, wherever, even when they are holding fragile porcelain bowls or heavy bags of groceries. When they drop whatever they are holding, I promise you that no one will notice my socks.
3) I’d like to learn to play an instrument badly.
Back in fifth grade I was learning to play the trumpet. I think I was pretty bad (there are definitely home videos to back me up), but I felt like a musical goddess (pronounced: gaw-DESS). I want to feel like a musical goddess again. Maybe I will learn to play guitar and harmonica simultaneously, and then no one will notice my mismatched guitar/harmonica sock combo. Maybe I will then play said guitar at 2:00 in the morning, just to get back at the guy who has been playing his guitar at all hours of the night in the room above mine. We can have a “Wonderwall” duel or something.
The list goes on—ordering from the kid’s menu, laughing even louder, being non-ironically excited about things—because honestly there are so many great, crazy things I should be doing more often. As my uncle would say, “If you act crazy enough, no one will notice the color of your socks.” I agree wholeheartedly. But I’d just like to add one thing: “Try wearing mismatched socks, and it just might bring out the crazy you’ve been looking for.”
Image via Annie Warner.