I feel like I’ve let my fellow women down. Most of my girlfriends and female family members have a wicked fashion sense and an eye for design. I have never been one to obsess over home decor, or even decorating my own body. Over the past few years, I’ve discovered scarves, skinny jeans, and riding boots. It seems to make me appear to have a little fashion sense, but the truth is that I do not. I can look at a person and tell if they’re dressed well or not, but most of the clothes I own are hand-me-downs from women who dress better than me. I find it almost impossible to actually pick out a new and exciting outfit and wear it confidently.
I can’t remember her name, but there was a girl who used to come to the restaurant I worked at who always wore the weirdest outfits. She wore things I’d see in People magazine and think, “Do real people actually wear this misshapen parka dress in public, and do they make it look as awkwardly attractive as you, Katie Holmes?” This girl did. She came in one day with this weird Bjorn-looking black feather dress. She got so many stares. We lived in a small town and not too many people were going around “taking chances” with their church wear. I noticed, though, that she didn’t care. Her confidence was radiating. I literally felt it all the way through my black goucho pants (another item I’d worn because everyone else did, but didn’t really think it looked good). She didn’t care and because she didn’t care, she pulled it off.
That’s not me. I can’t pull things off. I feel awkward at all times. I participated in a beauty pageant once in high school. My mother had never let me do them as a child, which I think she might regret as I now hate doing my hair, and make up is not something I’d ever clog my face holes with. Anyway, I practiced with the rest of the girls. They tried to teach me how to walk and wave and turn and all that. I even won Miss Congeniality. I think I got this because the sweet pageant girls knew that Becca Boys had no chance at winning. It was like a “thanks for trying” award. It was fun, and I felt pretty, but the effort that went into all that was exhausting.
Maggie did my hair. Someone did my make up. I was given a dress to wear. When Mom dropped me off the day of the pageant, most of the other girls were there with their moms. Their moms were there to help them dress and do hair and support their babies. My mom shot me a peace sign and said, “Have fun! Don’t trip!” I was quickly swept away by girls who knew what they were doing. I have to give a secret shout out to the girl whose mother yelled at me backstage. I was just…you know…walking…like a normal human being-when I accidentally stepped on her beautiful, long, fluff-ball of a dress. Her mom told me to watch where I was going and gave me a “I will literally cut your throat if you ruin my child’s chances at winning this patient” glare. Her daughter was so nice, telling her mom that I didn’t mean to. In hindsight, her mom had probably spent over five hundred dollars on that gown, and she had no idea I wasn’t an evil little pageant wrecker. Although, she should have put her glasses on. I was wearing high water jeans and a band letterman jacket. I can’t imagine I looked like much of a threat.
The same part of me that makes me proud to be ready to go anywhere in ten minutes is the part that cannot decorate this beautiful house of mine. While some people are excited about fixing up their new homes, I am overwhelmed. The idea of figuring out where to put what is excruciating. If I had the money, I would definitely hire a decorator. Just like choosing clothes, I can look at a room in a magazine and tell that it looks nice, but give me a blank canvas and I’ll give you function alone. TV goes on wall where I can see TV. Couches go in front of TV so I can sit on couch while watching TV. I have yet to hang a single picture in my home. Rick’s parents came to town and set up our living room (amongst a thousand DIY fixes) for us when I was in New York. His mother didn’t want to hang any pictures while I was gone because normal women want to be a part of those decisions. I really don’t. I really, really don’t. I want someone to tell me where things go, and am anxiously awaiting a visit from my mother for direction.
I can write a funny story, design an entertaining wedding program, sing a great song, cook a good meal, and nurse a sick baby. I’m a good listener and a great friend. I’ll tell you the truth and give you good advice. I will compliment your outfit, your home, and your make-up. I can appreciate the beauty in a space and art in all forms. Because I can do those things, I am not ashamed to stand tall in my high waters and scream shamelessly, “I AM THE GIRL WHO HATES HOME DECOR!”
Now, I’m running low on hand-me-downs. Go clean out your closet.