​Once upon a time, I made plans with someone special. He had pursued me for a while, and I finally agreed to an early evening get together. He was to message me the afternoon of the date as he had a few ideas of what we would do that night - and one was dependent on the weather.

The morning of our meetup I woke with anticipation, excited to see him. Although my schedule was hectic that day, I checked my phone periodically. The afternoon came, then went, without nary a peep. Not a single text chimed from my device until, at 9pm - well past the time we had said we would meet - I received two lame words: “hey you”.

“Inquisitive dear, not nosy.” The gently admonishing voice spoke from lips parted in a smile. A beautiful Mexican woman was standing in front of me wearing a lovely outfit, made all the more vibrant by her unusual necklace.

It was the jewelry in question which had caught my eye. I was in one of my favorite thrift stores, chatting with Jane - a salesperson with her own incredible sense of style, who I always tried to reserve a bit of time with to catch up. We had both admired the necklace that the Mexican woman wore, and I decided to ask about it - albeit with an apology for my curiosity.

It was the apology that the Mexican woman addressed. And within a few moments, the three of us were chatting like old friends. 

“I always tell the younger ones in my family that questions should be asked. So you never need to apologize,” the woman continued.

​I loved the idea of encouraging a sense of wonder and interest in the world. It’s a notion I subscribe to as well. But I’ve noticed a double standard within society since I was a kid. For example, in classrooms, if I asked questions or expressed a vocal interest in the subject, I was chastised for talking, told it wasn’t attractive to be bossy, or taken aside to suggest being less assertive. And yet when my male friends did the same, they were praised for their brains, encouraged to speak up, or commended for taking charge of their learning. 

​I’m scrolling thru social media and I see it. Yet another caption of “100% real” or “I was born this way”  or even “I woke up like this” as I stare into the falsely eyelashed, heavily made up face of a person using more cosmetics than I do when under stage lights. Filled lips pouting so heavy I wonder if their cheeks hurt from the weight as they strike a pose. One hand on hip pushing out the peach of a bum that came not from squats but from whatever procedure is most popular now…

Natural? Genetics? Absolutely not…and while I applaud and support one’s individual choice on how to look and feel his, her, or their, best, as well as to enhance, modify, or completely alter one’s appearance as one sees fit, I gotta wonder: 

Do we even known what “artless” humans look like these days?

​There’s an ex of mine I run into all the time. It’s not intentional on my part. He keeps showing up with his friends to the very location he KNOWS I will be. (Cue dramatic eye roll.)

Half the time however, I don’t realize he is there. At least until I detect someone flailing about dramatically out of the corner of my eye. (To catch my attention?) 

Or, as I am going about my usual routine, talking with people in this place, I see him because he always sits in the same spot - near my peeps. And then I notice him, for a moment, before getting distracted by the fact that I am busy, having fun, and I forget once again that he is there until…he does something extravagantly ridiculous once more, and he blips onto my radar for half a second. 

​I’m not one for fitting into boxes. I always get a bit triggered when people try to tell me who or what I am. But recently I had to shrug my shoulders and laugh when someone heard me talk about how few possessions I have, and gleefully announced:

“Ahhhh…so you’re a MINIMALIST!” 

He seemed to find so much JOY in determining something that I AM, that I didn’t have the heart to correct him. And yet when I thought about it later I began to wonder…

Was I a minimalist?