by Joey Rodman
I grew up in a pretty straight-laced family. My mother would put my hair in pin-curls and make me wear the whole puffy dress, tights, patent leather Mary Janes getup for every school picture. She would claim that it was the one day a year I looked “like a normal little girl.”
My friends and in laws have often asked me how someone like me came out of the family I did. One of my friends was a little unnerved at the idea that I even had parents, much less that they were very conservative and did things the “socially acceptable” way. I have an explanation though. Recently I got some old pictures of my grandmother in the mail. The first one in the stack? Grandma in a dress and tennis shoes. It was then that I remembered her telling me as a child “never wear shoes you can’t run away in,” and I never do. Maybe quirkiness skips a generation.
I really try to be normal. It’s hard. Sometimes my abnormality is cute, and other times it makes me the social pariah. In elementary school I was more interested in architecture than Barbies. I remember being at my friend’s birthday party and she received a beautiful doll house. All the girls gathered around exclaiming, “Oh, it’s got a baby bed!” and “Lookit! The oven opens!”…my contribution to the conversation? “The dormer windows are nice!” Dead silence. Everyone in the room stopped and looked at me. My friend rolled her eyes and said “Joey, stop saying nerdy things,” and everyone uncomfortably picked up their chatter again. I wasn’t invited to any parties for a while.
I tell you this because I have a confession to make and I hope you don’t shun me for it. I hate snow. I don’t think it’s pretty or magical or fun or exciting. I hate it. While most of my friends are taking their kids out sledding, making snow ice cream, building snowmen, or having snowball fights, I’m huddled up in the house praying for it all to go away. Snow is cold, messy, boring and a big inconvenience if you ask me. If it never snowed again I would be happy.