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They called me trendy, and they weren’t the first to do so.
They called me trendy and I took offense.
I’ve never been a follower and I’ve never been a sheep, and, to me, the word trendy means just that. I’ve always been ahead of the curve. So far ahead, in fact, that trend-setter never even applied.
As a freshman, in 1989, I found my basic comfort level of style was ripped jeans, a concert t-shirt, flannel overshirt and Chuck Taylor hi-tops. Grunge went mainstream over the next two years and, all of a sudden, everyone is wearing exactly that. Twenty years later, I’m pretty much wearing the same thing (most of the time) except that now it’s embroidered jeans, a camisole, unbuttoned white (or black) button-down shirt and custom Chucks. Same basic style, same basic outfit, still not following the crowd.
But my custom Chucks, my pink/black striped fingerless gloves, my embroidered jeans, my black and white plaid-ish purse, these things cause me to be accused (!) of being trendy.
It’s not always a compliment, either. Sometimes I wonder if it’s ever really a compliment. I’m not a good judge of that, though, since, to me, the word means something negative.
So I looked it up. Just now, actually, because I was curious.
2. following the latest trends or fashions; up-to-date or chic: the trendy young generation.
And there’s absolutely nothing wrong that. The first part is how I hear it, but maybe they mean "up-to-date" or "modern" or "chic", but they never use those words… they only ever say "trendy" with all that word implies.
I believe that I spend less money on clothes than the average American woman. I am certain that I spend less money on both shoes and accessories than the average American woman. Even the "trends" that I buy, I tend toward the more classic pieces, ones that will last through other seasons and styles. It’s not even necessarily when I’m wearing a CURRENT trend that I get called trendy. And I don’t even work at it. I don’t go out looking for ways to put together the latest fashions and styles, I just work with what’s available when I have money to spend on clothes or accessories.
I’m just trying to figure out what it means. To me, it’s such a loaded word that I can’t even hear any potential follow up. "You’re so trendy, Fyre, blah blah qualifying statement." And for the next couple of days, I’ll brood about the word trendy and how I got called it and then I’ll forget about it. For a few months. Until the next time someone calls me trendy };^>
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ub21sp-zr
It was three years ago that my dad passed away. It wasn’t until this week that I realized that none of my peer friends had lost a parent. The truth is, when you haven’t experienced that direct loss, you can’t ever understand it.
People want to empathize. They want to say that they know how you feel, but having lost an uncle or a grandparent or even a close friend is nothing, nothing compared to losing your parent. No matter how much someone wants to share that pain with you, most of them simply can’t and they won’t even really understand that until they join the club. There are few who really understand that, but there are some.
When my father’s mother died, someone told him "I know how you feel, I recently lost my cat."
Death hurts those who are still living, no matter what your relationship to the deceased was, but not all deaths, not all losses, are equal.
I can see this more clearly now, seeing it happen to someone else. I know the pain that she’s going through and I know that, as well meaning as so many people are, they just don’t understand. You can’t really detach from this one, and it never gets easy. It gets easier, but even that takes time.
My brother and I were talking about this yesterday with a friend who had just come back from visiting her dad. We were trying to explain. "It never gets easy and it never goes away. One moment you’re fine, walking down the street, smiling, singing, whistling a happy tune and then something reminds you…" "You look over and you see that cab driver, working for the same company dad worked for, and he looks *just* like him, and you raise your hand to wave…. then you remember…" "And it’s like you just got punched in the stomach. Or stabbed in the heart."
Or, maybe it’s when I watch my son play guitar and I notice that he bars his A chord the way my dad did. The way I’ve rarely seen other people play it. And I wish, so often, that he had lived just enough longer to see Spawn learn to play… no… learn to LOVE guitar. Maybe he could have taught him some techniques or some songs or just given him a list of artists that he should become familiar with.
I wish, I wish, I wish. If only, if only, if only.
It doesn’t ever go away.
So I, who is a very touchy-feely person, who can talk without breath, who volleys words with my friends and family so that it’s too hard a conversation to follow, I can sit with someone who lost her father and not say a word, and not reach out and force myself on her. I can sit and listen or sit and nothing or force the issues that need to be decided immediately that you don’t want to have to think about. I can let go of all the things that I ordinarily do and just be there.
Here we all are, approaching the age where our parents start to go. I may have been the first of those I’m close to, but at least they’ll have someone who can really understand when their turns arrive. For my friend who is in the middle of it right now, she’ll be equipped for that eventual phone call from someone who just joined the club and can’t think, and doesn’t know what to do, and doesn’t want someone to liken her father’s death to something entirely different. You join the club when your dad passes, but it’s when someone else’s father goes that you really get it.
Rest in peace, Joe. I’m glad I met you, I wish I could have known you a little better. And, most importantly, thank you for my friend. You shaped her into an amazing person and I am lucky to count her among my friends.