Hoodie Days

Thursday was meant to be a "hoodie day." In high school, I allowed myself one day of the week, just one day, to look like a bum. I called this day "hoodie day." It was usually reserved for a day when I felt crummy, when I couldn't brush the bitter taste of teen angst or socio-political rage out of my mouth or simply didn't feel like making an effort because everyone needs a day off. On this day, instead of wearing a nice top, I wore a hoodie sweatshirt, usually my favorite Lucky Brand in faded black, with roses on the sleeves and "Live in Love" embroidered on the chest. No matter how hot it was, if it was a hoodie day, I was wearing the sweatshirt. The hoodie was a self-admission that it's okay to feel crummy; I didn't have to be perfect or put together all the time.

Thursday was meant to be a hoodie day. The night before, taking my pre-bed shower, I hunched my shoulders to protect lungs seizing from being forced to hold in angry sobs, though I had still cried. My arms dangled beside me, missing the soap, barely able to lather, from clutching my books to me--the books I used to protect my heart when I was upset. When I was a sophomore in high school, I once heard a senior girl say she liked to hold her scriptures when she felt scared, not necessarily read them, but hold them. Ever since then, when I was uncomfortable, upset, or scared, I did the same--I wrapped my arms around them, pressed them to my chest like a bulletproof vest. Now my arms were tired, my biceps twitching as water dripped off them. I washed my hair, knowing I wouldn't dry it, but would go to bed with it wet, pressed up against my pillow. It would probably look terrible, like it usually does if I leave it to its own whim.

I got into bed, making a quick phone call to my father, and looking up "Resurrection" in my Bible, because it felt like the right thing to do, the right thing to fall asleep with on my mind. I closed the canopy on my bed, because I've grown to think it keeps me safe and I can't sleep without it closed. Though my arms were tired, I clutched my scriptures to my chest like a child clutches to a teddy bear at night.

I skipped my swim class in the morning, even though I desperately need to do well in that class to graduate. I heard my roommates rummaging around to leave, but didn't notice them open the door to check if I was awake and ready to go to class. My back must have been turned to the door.

When I finally got up, I felt better than I had the night before, but I still wanted to wear a sweater, and I wanted to stay in my pajamas, reading in bed all day. Thursday was meant to be a hoodie day, but it can't be.

Thursday is my favorite day of the week, and as my favorite day of the week, I want to make it extra special, so I have a rule. Every Thursday, I dress up in a skirt and heels and wear makeup. Now, each of these three things, separate, on any given day, is not unusual. To find all of them in one day is uncommon. Thursdays are special, and I want them to stay special, so I adhere strictly to this rule, having only missed one Thursday since I started this practice.

So, when I got up Thursday morning, even though I felt like a hoodie, I reached for a cardigan to match my skirt. I wore my favorite navy-blue corduroy skirt with my favorite gray tights and my essential black patent leather pumps with a slub-knit shirt in my beloved gray. I wore the navy cardigan, with the pearl buttons I put on myself, because I thought the original ones were boring. Through no effort of my own, my bed-dried hair looked better than it does when I style it, Taylor Swift wavy, something that has never happened before. I spritzed it with a little hairspray to hold down any fly-aways. Then I got out two clips--a set of small satin bows in navy, and set them in my hair to reveal the pearl earrings that matched the buttons on the cardigan. In a word, I looked adorable. I put on my 1960s-style wool coat and ruffled blue suede gloves, and headed out the door.

It wasn't a perfect day, but it felt that way. The previous day's distress still hung about in my lungs, but I felt lighter, more hopeful, like flowers were blooming where they didn't belong--like in the crevices of rocks. It felt like the way I feel when I'm walking home late at night, and I come across a bunny. It felt like the way I feel when I make a sudden discovery.

And the best part? Realizing it was Thursday. This might sound stupid, but on Thursday, I treat myself to one of my life's simplest pleasures: a steamed soymilk from my favorite coffee shop. I used to get one every day for breakfast, but then I started losing too much weight and spending too much money. So now I only get them on Thursdays for lunch. When I realized it was the day I got my steamed soy, I actually clapped my hands.

As far as days go, it was pretty good, and it started because I didn't wear a hoodie. I know I don't need to have it together all the time. I didn't make it through the day without my eyes swelling with tears, but not a one hit my cheek. It was a good day because I was determined to make it one. I was faking it, and it became true.

When I went to bed, I wanted to cry, but I didn't.