Tattle Tale Socks

At the top of the hill I take my jacket off and sit gently down on the bench overlooking the River Foyle and the old Arts building. The day is a beautiful, a cool-in-the-wind but warm-in-the-sun kind of day. I was on my way to the practice rooms but I just had to take in some sun. (I think I've developed a Vitamin D deficiency since I came to Ireland. When the sun shines, every moment must be cherished.)

The fall leaves crisp by me, carried by the breeze, and I pull out my journal. I look down at these clothes I put on so carefully today: classic yellow cardigan, favorite rusty v-neck, black high waisted pants, kenyan earrings, necklace from my mom, and black hand-me-down shoes.

I try not to care that, when I cross my legs, my white socks are all exposed against my black shoes and pants. They sit there, those dumb socks, like little tattle tales, whining out to the world that I am not nearly as fashionable as I'd like to be.

I also try not to care that my belly noticeably nudges against my high-waisted pants and tucked in shirt. Tucked in shirts are not all that flattering most of them time. In light of this, however, I think I've started tucking my shirts in because my belly pudges a little. I tuck them in declaring, "I won't hide the way I am! I am who I am in this body! I am this!" I say, trying to smile.

After about forty minutes of enjoying the writing and the sun and the leaves and the bench, I put my jacket back on, tug my pant legs down a bit to cover my white socks, tuck my shirt back in, and head happily down to the practice rooms for the next several hours. And I do smile.