The End of Even

This is it, my last day of being 36 years old and I am totally bummed.  It's not so much that I am getting a year older but that I will be 37 which is an odd number.  I have a problem with odd numbers and things that don't match in general.  Crazy I know, but I like for everything to match, add up equally, be simple and normal and calm and even and match and boring and match  ... Oh my God I'm such a loser.

I blame my "even issues" on my mother.  Don't get me wrong, I love Martha.  She is my sun and my moon, north and my south, green pepper jelly and my cream cheese ... you get the picture.  From a very young age my mother taught me the importance of choosing your wardrobe carefully and taking the time to, well match.  A simple yet classy belt accompanied by a carefully chosen blouse, pressed slacks and attractive heel can go a long way, but only if they match.  Oh I see those ladies out there in cool land wearing a turquoise shirt with a print belt, and interesting shade of gray skirt with maybe a funky multi-colored wedge and let's say a pair of glittery hoop earrings but I can't do it.  I would do anything to find my inner Blondie but she is hidden under all those sweater and pants sets that I cannot stop myself from hanging back in my closet every season.

All my friends comment on my never ending supply of white shirts; the most unoriginal, uncool, unsexy article of clothing in the world but I am addicted.  It's an affliction I have, to constantly wear white so I can be sure that my outfit matches and I don't have to worry if my pink shirt is the same hue as my pink sweater.  I actually took pride in coordinating my scrunchies with my dresses back in the day.  Oh my goodness and black clothing!  The amount of stress and time I put into making sure the black fabric for my shirts and pants are the same and my black shirts and black slacks have the same amount of fading is bananas.  Don't even get me started on wearing white before Memorial Day or after Labor Day.  It's just not done.  White shirts not included.

Just the other morning my sweet angel Annie who is a 5 year old mini Pat Benatar picked out her clothes for school.  This of course is always wonderful, however they consisted of a pastel explosion of hearts tank top, neon striped leggings, Hello Kitty socks, 4th of July headband and her purple crocs.  Annie would be adorable in a potato sack and I appreciate her zest for color but I almost had a stroke.  All of those colors together was mind numbing and I made several (million) attempts to explain why although there is blue on each article of clothing, they don't necessarily coordinate well together.  This prompted a "Mom you're so square" stare and off to school she went.  Martha would've whipped out an adorable coordinating ensemble in a nanosecond, complete with matching hair bow and frilly socks.

But for the next 365 days I will have to embrace my inner oddness; 37 could actually be a good look for me.  Seven is a lucky number for me after all.  I was 27 when I had my first child Carl who was born on December 7th weighing 7 lbs. and 7 ounces.  My first trip to Myrtle Beach with my friends was the summer I was 17 and it was so totally awesome.  There are 7 days in a week, Annie has 7 freckles, my first car was a 1987 VW Golf and I can tread water for 7 minutes without wanting to die.  Seven sounds pretty good.

Here's to the end of even.  For now.