Stripes and Spots.

Last week, I had a contentious meeting scheduled at work. It shouldn't have been contentious; my ask from a different team in our organization was perfectly civil and in the right.  They didn't agree though and thus, a meeting of opposing forces was called.

Needless to say, I wasn't looking forward to it.  But, I did the necessary prep work ahead of time, had all of my points outlined, and - maybe the most important step - planned a power outfit.  Whether you care about fashion or not I will forever and ever maintain that the way one dresses dictates a very large part of how one feels throughout the day.  So on went the striped shirt (obviously), the gray pencil skirt, and...my newest (somewhat irrational but also not because they are fabulous)shoes - a pair of leopard print booties.

As I surveyed my outfit in the mirror, I thought to myself...stripes and leopard.  That's new for me.  And then I promptly grabbed my coat, turned on my heel and walked out of my apartment, because you know why?  Fuck the rules.

This has been my new mantra as of late.  As a perennial rule follower, I find that I have suddenly and unequivocally grown very weary of them.  All of them.  While I'm not going to start ignoring red lights or stop paying my taxes, I find that I am suddenly questioning a lot of things that have become rules just to be rules.  Or maybe it's just that I find myself pushing back more than I used to, questioning whatever 'authority' has set its sights on dictating certain behaviors and attitudes.  I mean, who makes up these rules anyhow?  Who tells us what we're supposed to think or how to act or what to say or feel?  They're not the boss of me.

The biggest secret I have learned about adulthood thus far is that no one has it figured out.  Absolutely no one.  We're all just doing the best we can and faking what we can't. And I've grown weary of coloring within the lines and making the responsible, rational choices all of the time.  Granted, it is not and will likely never be in my nature to run rampant through the streets flipping cars over, as I'm far more of a curl up with a good book or head to the theater kind of girl, but where I can I just feel like asking "why" more often.  "Why?" and "Who says?"

Perhaps it comes back to that old adage of it being better to ask for forgiveness instead of permission. Maybe it's because I'm in the last year of my 30's and I often think to myself of a line I once heard the writer Ann Patchett say: "People will tell you that you stop caring what other people think when you're in your 40's...but I turned 50 last year and let me tell you - you REALLY stop caring what other people think when you're in your 50s." Or maybe I'm arriving at a place where I can say to myself "Oh, what the hell. Life is short" and then just get on with it.  Because it is short. Far too short for instance, to not opt for the stripes and spots and hell, even the plaid on the same day.

Oh, and that meeting last week?  I won.