The body is the shell of the soul,
and dress the husk of that shell;
but the husk often tells what the kernel is.
It appears I have an addiction, an addiction now thinking back probably started when I was in grade three. I never really worried about what others thought of me, let me rephrase that, sometimes I did but chose to live in a world of my very own. A world that I had created in my head shutting out the laughter coming from the other kids. Oh yes, there was indeed teasing and laughter. Life in public school was not always gentle to many of us, I like to say “Outside of the box thinkers.”
Enough of that, now back to my addiction.
The winters were long and cold when I was a kid. Our old house was cold and walking to school was even colder, I was always freezing. One day, in a bag of hand me downs a hat came into my life that changed things and started me down a road that grips me to this day.
It was an itchy blue wool toque that pulled down, covering your face except for your mouth and eyes. Some called it a ski mask or a bank robbery mask, I loved that hat. I would pull it on first thing every morning leaving my face exposed, sit down for my breakfast of lumpy oatmeal with skim milk powder and never paid any attention to my brothers and sisters laughter. Mom tried to talk me out of wearing it but I knew if I took it off one of those jealous kids would snatch it and it would be gone. It was like my shield from the cold plus it was mine only, something in a family as large as ours was a rare thing.
After that delicious breakfast I, along with my brothers and sisters would pull on our coats and boots and they pulled on their hats and we would head out into the blustery cold wind to walk to school. I pulled down my itchy blue wool toque hiding my face with only my eyes and my mouth showing and walked along like I owned that winter. I did feel sorry for everyone who did not have one.
After walking through the door at school my teacher after much protest would pull that hat off my head apparently not impressed with my sense of style. Every recess she pulled it from inside her desk drawer and then once again for that long walk back home. I wore that hat every day, long into the hot days of June. I am not sure of the day but I do remember my Mom finally took it away; it was a very sad day indeed. You would have thought I had lost my best friend. I was so angry but Mom convinced me that there was a bald spot on the back of my head. I never did see that hat again.
I tell you this story now because it appears I am drifting back to those days once again, I have no idea why. Knitting constantly and making hat upon hat always changing the style and the colour, knitting and knitting.
I realized it was once again becoming a problem while sitting at a delicious beef supper at our local church on the weekend. I sat with my shades of blue hat, a pattern, and style I had never done before. I sat there in a room full of non-hat wearing people and dreamed of that itchy knitted blue wool toque that disappeared without a trace. I have no idea if there was laughter I was once again in my own world.
So, my questions for you...
Do you think I have a problem? Is there such a thing as hat wearer anonymous?