THIS IS NOT A TIRE

November 25th, 2009

Ever been called crazy, batty, berserk, bonkers, kooky, mental, screwball, unhinged or wacky? Ever think you might be? I know I have been referred to as many or perhaps all of the above. Yes, I have been quite certain a number of times in my life that the only safe place for me was in one of two places: a nunnery or insane asylum. How the two relate may be a stretch, and could be attributed to my self diagnosed psychoses; nonetheless, in society at large I was convinced I did not belong. Over the years I have found balance by coming to terms with the plethora of experiences from both ends of the spectrum.

In true teenage angst, I often thought I had some kind of terminal illness, or that I had lost all rationality from time to time. Both my hormones learning how to release themselves, and having enough autonomy to experience new situations with others going through the same thing lead to many adventures and in retrospect dangerous situations. Insanity might be subjective; however, there certainly were times where my control was limited and my thoughts and actions were unpredictable. In hindsight I was just trying for two things: stability and confidence in myself. While being acutely aware that I did not fit the mold of most teens (case and point/point and case: I was about 14 years old, chatting on the phone with a friend of mine. She decided it was time to end the call and go on to do other things and said “okay, I’ll talk to you soon,” I replied ‘okay,’ then sat by the phone waiting for her to call back. I waited about 30 minutes then called her, asked her why she hadn’t rang? She was clearly as confused as I was at that point. I had an inside conversation with myself about missing that, and then from that point forward watched others’ behavior to try and pick up the norms). Also, I was in the pure hunt for attention. What better way to bring my senior classmates out of the daily obsession with “who was and was not at last week’s party” than sporting a homemade Straight Jacket to school?

One of my few school friends (oh please don’t feel bad for me, it was totally by choice) Katie came over to the house and we pitched the brilliant, I mean ludicrous, idea to my mom. Yes, somehow I convinced another living human being that making straight jackets from scratch was a great idea. Oddly, I have been able to swing Katie to do a couple of idiotic activities over the years, but being as this is where it started, its not hard to believe we found ourselves in Scotland dancing a jig on a bar table, while quoting ‘everything happens for a reason’. Really? Yup, except that phrase does not hold true for me anymore (I’m running away with my thoughts here…let’s bring this back to focus…wait are you helping or just along for the ride? The ride? Good… I do prefer it when people know their place ). Katie and I located a number of old belts about the house, we figured each jacket would need a total of three: two for the arms and one that would appear to pass between the legs. My Mom was attempting to be a road block in the beginning, saying things like: “Those are good belts Lisa!” , “What do you need this for?” And, “I don’t know how long to make the arms.”

Once my Mom was on board properly we were able to channel her talents to assist with our creation. We were even able to find a light canvas material (be it an off white, almost cream). My mind was able to accept this short coming on color as my Mom would not volunteer the extra cost for the pure white canvas. Since she was the financial backer of this project, cream was better than nothing. We modified a causal top pattern and like Edward Scissor Hands created a thing of beauty that was a little different for the average on-looker. As I sewed the belt buckles to the back of the shirt and the tips of the belt to the ends of the long pointy sleeves the more certifiably insane and delightfully perfect my jacket of the ‘straight’ kind became. I made a slight modification to my sleeves so that my jacket was functional. I made two slits in the fabric at the wrist (any irony there?) so that I could slip my hands out to perform ‘normal’ tasks that required hands. This was necessary because clearly I would be wearing this new item often and needed to be able to take notes at school and drive the car.

Working all weekend, by Sunday afternoon we had a finished product. Katie went home with her ‘crazy shirt’ with the agreement that we would both wear them to school the next morning. Finally a friend who was not influenced by peer pressure, and just quirky enough to dabble in crazy with me. My family sat down to eat Sunday supper together. A small but powerful argument began about my weekend’s work. “Lisa, you cannot wear this to school,” my mom told me with confidence. I’m quite certain she had the support of my father. Seeing that this two-on-one situation was not looking like one I was going to be victorious in, I quieted my voice and commenced to formulate a plan that would allow me to do what I wanted without parental knowledge. That plan evolved into folding the jacket in my backpack so that once dropped off at school I could pull it out and put it on (I know, genius). I’m sure my parents never thought I might do that. Besides, it was only a year ago when I had my mom hem a NASA astronaut blue jumpsuit and wore that school, so I thought my boundaries of ‘off the wall’ ideas were widened; however, I think for my parents, and perhaps rightfully, a homemade straight jacket was outside of the area given to me.

I spotted Katie from across the open entrance of the school. In my groovy new top with miss-matched belt buckles I noticed that she was not wearing hers. A pit in the bottom of my stomach began to grow. Suddenly being an individual did not seem as much fun, as cool, or as interesting as it had appeared when knowing that Katie was along for this crazy train approach (and thus not really being an individual, which is a fact I have only realized of at this moment). I wanted to know what was going on…not really in a panic, but in more of an ‘I’ve been let down’ sense. (Really, let down? Who let whom down? Clearly, Katie was the carrier of more social awareness). Similarly to when a ‘group think’ event occurs, and the group doesn’t want the ‘event’ to get out; they all agree to take it to the grave. What that really means is “who ever tells first has dibs on framing the story.” Or in this case, not ‘commit’ to the plan.

A wide berth was given to me in the halls that day, and the subsequent days to follow. First period was full of all the looks and whispers, everything for which I was hoping. Jokes and cracks were flying from all corners of the class. Oh how they thought they were taking the upper hand of my lunatic canvas top, but they were reacting just as I had planned. I owned the room; my brain was hot, and my hands were tucked inside the length of the sleeves with a light covering of sweat. Class was finally brought to order as our teacher came into the room, and any further plans of attention were dashed. The focal point was no longer mine and would not be returned again until lunch.

So, am I weird? Sure, without question, provided your perspective is one that doesn’t often take you to the edge of social discovery. At the end of the school day my energy was low, and my need for a nap was beyond compare, so much that I forgot to remove the item I had been forbade the night before. My mom must have known as she didn’t have much to say aside from a knowing ‘how was your day’?

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