One evening last week, a friend of mine and I strolled past an imports shop in Portland's old town, and I pointed to the funky--I don't know, Nepalese? Bolivian?--knit caps, the cute, whimsical kind with ear flaps that tie beneath your chin (which are typically left to dangle) with a pointy crown topped by a tassel, and I commented that perhaps I should buy one cause they were so cute.
In a crunchy sorta way.
To which he replied with just the merest hint of bemused pain, "Don't be that girl."
And I had to laugh, cause I knew exactly what he meant. I went to Evergreen with a LOT of That Girl, the blowzy, make-up free, patchouli-scented Hippie Maidens that stared, grinning and blank-eyed and probably tripping or at least terribly iron-deficient in their Indian skirts and trail boots and leggings and bulky Salvadoran-knit sweaters and long, straight hair, exuding their earthy, I-run-naked-through-the-woods-and-use-reusable-menstrual-pads sexuality, and the men they attracted--while also classified as "hippies" or, at least "hippie-ish" or "hippie-wannabes" or probably more appropriately, "nouveau hippies" 'cause, in spite of the let-me-experience-poverty metaphors many of them adopted, still hauled ass to various Rainbow Gatherings or Phish concerts in the brand-spankin'-new Honda Accords bought for them by Mumsy and Daddums, but I digress--were generally totally cute and so, I admit, I wanted to be That Girl for a while, I wanted (I thought) that whole dreamy metaphor, if only cause it was, it seemed, an idealized externalization of whatever it is I thought I valued and wanted to become.
Luckily, people grow up.
I'm not and never could be a true Hippie Maiden, in spite of my Berkeley pedigree; I can't wear all those bulky layers and the idea of washable menstrual pads totally grosses me out, no matter HOW down with Reduce, Reuse, Recycle I am. And I've gotten my borderline anemia under control.
But this is not to say that I'm not, deep down, That Girl.
Yes, I wear make-up, my favorite scent is a perfume by Carolina Herrera, I can actually walk in heels higher than an inch, I love costume jewelry, and my alter-ego is a drag queen.
But I also wear sensible shoes, I've baked my own bread, I was raised Unitarian, and when I get lazy I let my leg hair grow. Acupuncture needles have pierced my skin, numerous times. I meditate on a pillow in front of a candle in the lotus position. And I've referred to my cat as "My Familiar."
Oh, yes. I have.
Add to this, I grow alfalfa sprouts on the kitchen drainboard, in my new-ish "Sprout Master Triple Mini" sprouter I bought with an Amazon gift card I got for my birthday, along with 2 pounds of organic seeds.
I think this brings me back to my Berkeley childhood; my mother used to grow sprouts, but she used a huge Co-op Old Fashioned Peanut Butter Jar, rinsed and shaken daily until the seeds sprouted. Mine is a bit easier, and the sprouts are delicious--I stuff them into quesadillas or pile them on sandwiches, the same way you'd use lettuce.
So, okay, maybe NOT so deep down.
So, while I think I can probably refrain from buying an imported cap with ear flaps and a tassel, I'm never giving up my sprouter.
I'm on batch #3.
Peace out.
