Not All Girls Are Scout Material
My mother signed me up to be a Brownie when I was in the second grade. It was my first step toward becoming an actual Girl Scout, something she insisted I wanted. She even volunteered to be a Brownie troop leader to make the deal more attractive, but she was only fooling herself.
Like most girls in the 70s, my desires were based on the quality of my mother's bribes. The sweeter the exchange, the more likely she'd get me to do what was asked, and it just so happens that I'd been eyeing a pair of wooden clogs at Faflik Shoes for the better part of a year.
Wearing fashion heels to school was a big deal for a seven-year-old. The clomp from my wooden stubs could be heard for miles—at least, that's what Mrs. Kimpton said when I shuffled past her desk and slipped on a purple crayon. "I like your shoes," whispered one of my classmates, her eyes wide and jaw dangling. Honestly, who could blame her? The punch-out design across the leather tops was something to behold.
The rest of the day was a blur. Much of my time was spent gushing over my superb taste in footwear. A celebrity in my mind, I would occasionally stomp to the other side of the room to sharpen my pencil, which was shaved down to a nub when the bell rang.
I was still whirling when my mother showed up for our Brownie meeting. While she and our teacher reviewed the agenda, we girls sat on metal chairs, swinging our feet. This was particularly hard for those of us donning high fashion. Between my sweet kicks and those brown knee socks, I may as well have been walking the red carpet.
"Okay, girls, let's pull our chairs together and form a circle. We're gonna play Duck, Duck, Goose!"
Duck, Duck, Goose? Are you kidding me? That's a child's game, and I was wearing grown-up girl shoes. I wouldn't be caught dead trying to run in those things, and I sure as hell wasn't going to take them off like my mother suggested. Instead, I took a deep breath and announced my departure. *record scratch*
There are moments in every young person's life when they test the boundaries of fate. This would be my last. The look on my mother's face was more painful than the blister forming on the side of my foot. I could feel her blood boiling.
"If you don't take those shoes off right now, so help me God..." was all I heard before the rage exploded in my brain, burning the top layer of skin off my face and forcing a stern "No!" straight out of my mouth.
"What did you just say?"
We both knew I had taken it too far. It was evident I would be spending the next six weeks in a suburban prison starting the second we got home but standing my ground on something as vital as runway safety just felt right. I folded my arms, shook my head, and burrowed my fiery eyes into hers like a dagger.
I can't recall the exact words she used that day, but the volume on that dial was way up. "Get in the car," she screamed, her searing fingers squeezing my muscleless arm. "You just wait till your father gets home."
Her rant continued the entire two-mile drive home, and all I could think was that she must have really wanted to be a troop leader to be this upset. Powerless, I pulled the pin out of that stupid orange scarf for the last time and threw it on the floorboard of her golden-brown Oldsmobile—never to be seen again.
If you want to know the truth, it's probably still buried next to her dream of me becoming a Girl Scout, the same dream I keep having that my teenage hooligan will clean her room.
I now understand what my mother meant when she said, “I’m too old for this shit.” Grab one of our clean version t-shirts and follow along for more.
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