It’s October 25th. And do you know what today is?
Punk For A Day Day!
This tickles me because my husband is always saying, “Quit being a punk!”
When I discovered it’s a day to celebrate, well, me – I have to admit. I got a little excited. But then I began to wonder, am I really a punk?
I consulted Merriam-Websters.
The first definition is “prostitute.” Nope. Not me. And since I eschew heavy make-up and high heels of any variety, I’m sure I’ve never been mistaken for one.
Gangster or hoodlum? Me? Little Miss Rule Follower and Defender of the Weak? Strike two.
Dabbling in nonsense and foolishness? Now we’re getting somewhere. (Take this post, for instance.)
Now that’s a definition I can relate to.
I have complained here, many a time, on how I feel like I don’t fit in. How I seem to have lived my life backwards. My timing is always off. I don’t belong to any one crowd. Blah, blah, blah.
I’ve embraced my quirks. At this point in my life, I’m a peace that I married too young the first time and a little old the second time. I was a young mother and then an old mother. I never knew what I wanted to be when I grew up and I didn’t care about growing up. I was a music major studying classical voice and rocking out to Metallica in between classes. I was the designated driver at every single party in high school (yes, high school) and college. I still wear Minnetonka moccasins, Keds and peace signs, as I have for the past thirty years. I don’t care that they’ve gone in and out of style – I’ve never stopped wearing them.
That’s me. I’m a rebel.
And I have always been repulsed by blatant materialism and greed. I love it when I hear about a celebrity who lives in a 2000 square foot home and drives a Prius. I think companies like Toms Shoes are amazing and I wish I had thought of it first.
But when wikiHow proceeds to tell me how to look like a punk? That’s when I get my panties in a bunch. Didn’t the definition say “fierce individualist?”
I don’t have spiky hair. I don’t wear leopard print leather pants with a punk-band-goth-t-shirt with my cowboy boots and dog collar. I don’t wear brightly colored make-up. I hardly wear any at all. Reading their cookbook list is making me panic. How can I celebrate me, today, when I can’t conform?
Wait. A punk is a non-conformist. And I’m going to celebrate all the non-conforming things about me that I love. And you should, too! (The things about you, that is.)
Are you a non-conformist? Yay! Punks unite!
Well, for today, anyway.