My girlfriend and I are moving in together, and I think I might throw up. Not because I don't want to live with her, or because I was bullied, tricked or pressured into signing a lease (my deepest sympathies to the guy on Maury who was threatened at gunpoint by his future mother-in-law). But let's just say that sometimes I can be a bit, um, "skittish" when facing transitions.
On the first wintry day of 2nd grade, for example, I refused to surrender my shorts. "But it's cold outside, Ethan," my mother tried to reason. "Today is a pants day."
Defying her logic, I attended school in a pair of gorgeous cut-offs, and would regret it by 1PM. Not solely out of embarrassment, mind you, for being the only kid in class to bear my bottom half to the elements—but also because I nearly froze my ass off at recess. Why Falling In Love Is Just Like Investing In Real Estate
My stubborn sartorial choices would continue. The next year, I insisted on wearing a colorful safari cap every day. My mom had to literally pry it off my head once it became too filthy and tattered to wear, just in time to stave off Child Services from taking me on an involuntary vacation.
To uninformed outsiders, this behavior might be interpreted as the symptom of an eccentric fashion sense. Such was the popular assessment of my 7th grade classmates over the orange sweatpants I would famously wear three times a week. While it was possible that I was the 13-year old male Gaga, deep down the dread was about relinquishing control. Read on...
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