The church had a Bikers of Faith meeting this evening, and we attended as a family because the food was good. Sam wanted to know what they had planned for the year so that we could get any relevant dates loaded onto our calendar well in advance. They didn't talk about dates or events, so we ate good food and watched a comedy.
I've never been into fashion trends or fitting in with crowds. I'm not a sheep, I guess is what I'm saying. Knowing it was a biker meeting, I knew there would be a fair share of leather and Harley apparel. I understand that it's just going to be a given. What I don't understand is why. I love riding as much as the next person, but I just can't seem to comprehend how dressing in specific apparel enhances an experience. I feel the same about putting on a dress for Sunday church, wearing coats in the winter, and any garment that is uncomfortable no matter how appropriate it is to the occasion. In short, I wear what I want because it makes me happy, and I always look like the odd man out because I'm a nonconformist.
I'm also very, very glad that I didn't wear my black puffer vest that I pretty much live in over the cold months of the year, because I'd have looked like the lamest wannabe at the party. That would have been embarrassing. Why DO bikers need to wear black leather vests? It can't be a protection thing, because that leather isn't going to do squat in an accident.
You can always count on me to be alone in a corner, dressed like a leftover from the last decade, waiting for a random dog to come along so I have someone to connect with. Fashion, trends, and conversation generally elude me in group settings.
As I was mentally congratulating myself for not wearing the vest, however, I realized that I'm getting old. One is always aware that body parts are going to sag and skin will stretch. It's a given. While you're focused on that kind of betrayal by your 20 year body (that you always think you have, in your mind), other body parts begin to turn on you, and before you know it, you have turned into your parents.
While I was listening to the comedy, I realized that I am my mother. In so many ways. But it was the onions that told me this.
I love onions. Not quite as much as Micah does, but I do appreciate a few sprinkled on a hot dog or hamburger, tossed with a salad, or mixed with some tomatoes and mushrooms and tossed in Italian dressing. (That's good stuff, right there.) I'd had a salad with dinner, and added a few slices onions to the top because YUM. (And I was sitting with my family, at the end of a table near nobody else, because that's how I prefer life. See the above paragraph.) Those onions started wreaking havoc with my stomach about 30 minutes into the comedy. It wasn't pleasant.
I remember hearing my mom talk about things like, "I can't eat onions anymore," and "that bothers my stomach." I clearly remember thinking, "Old people and their old people problems. Good grief."
I'm an old people, and I'm suffering. Probably from I-mocked-my-mom-itis.
My stomach felt like it was on fire from the inside, which was an odd feeling even if it was unpleasant. I figured that drinking water would be a great way to douse the fire, but I'm fairly certain the 2 glasses of water I had made it worse. While the bottom of my stomach was irritated by the onion sitting there, the water filled the entire stomach with onion-infused goodness and made the whole organ scream in agony.
Good times, this getting old stuff, huh?
I'm going to have to remember never to eat raw onions again. Stay tuned for next month, when I will most likely have to confess that I can only eat bland foods like cream of wheat and mashed potatoes. I'll just retire that black puffer vest, too, because bland foods are generally white, and I'm a slob.
I don't follow fashion trends. Perhaps an adult bib should be something I carry with me. Maybe I can start my own fashion trends. Anyone want to join me with the bib thing?