Your mother wears Army boots.

I am well on my way to dressing like an eccentric old bat.  Before walking the neighborhood I reach for a hat—not a red one—but a stiff-brimmed straw hat which belonged to my dad.  Its brown shoelace strap goes through rusty grommets, then under my chin where it is held snug by a slide-up wooden bead.

My work as a seventh grade fashion designer.

When I was young I would have spent the whole walk imagining the spectacle I was, parading around in my father’s hat.  Now I know the neighbors probably don’t even notice, or, if they do, they don’t care.

Apparently, neither do I.

I have moved from being easily embarrassed, to being an embarrassment.  Time shifts us to the more comfortable side of that equation.

When I was young I was sure that the package was all that mattered.  Each new outfit was an experiment in a possible new self.  I’d put something on and see what my friends thought of this new person before deciding whether I liked her.