The face of exuberance

This giddily over-decorated pumpkin caught my eye just as we were leaving the garden store last week, and then again this morning. 

Something about her mouth -- all those teeth! -- reminds me of my mother, I think.  But also -- she's just so different from all the other pumpkins.  It's as if she thought she'd been invited to a celebrity gala and it turned out to be a hayride. 

I feel like that sometimes, too; sort of embarrassingly different.  In college my nickname was Tigger, cuz I had this irritating way of bouncing happily into situations that everyone else thought should be treated with all seriousness.  It also used to happen frequently at family gatherings -- only usually then I was the plain pumpkin in a field of painted ones, instead of the other way 'round.  They'd all be in mink and satin, and I'd be wearing a wool coat and a knit dress.  Although there was one time when they were all dressed in black or red gabardine, and I had worn green satin...

What's interesting is how strong the drive is to fit in, even after all these years.  I get that it's an issue in junior high and high school, but once we're out in the world, aren't we supposed to begin working to differentiate ourselves?  Or is this some weird compensation device at work: knowing myself to be different, I try to balance that by fitting in visually?

And as I write, and keep glancing at her, I think the pumpkin is just encouraging me to love all the parts of myself that are rolling around inside -- even the outrageous ones.  "Hey," she's saying, "Let's play!  Let's get into it, live a little, take a risk!  Don't be afraid to be different -- CELEBRATE your differences! Come on!  Have a little fun!" 

Hmm.  I think it's just too early in the morning to want to respond to that invitation.  But I'll keep it in mind: maybe at some point later in the day there'll come an opportunity to say Yes to something silly.  I'll try not to shut down in the face of her exuberance...