In all honesty, I’m really not a rebellious kid. I don’t say this to brag, but as far as teenagers go, I’m one of the more cooperative ones when it comes to rules and regulations.
Once upon a time, though, I did have a rebellious phase.
A few years back, I decided I would wear a bright orange shirt on Christmas morning. You may say, “So what? It’s just a shirt!” but to a photographer, no shirt is just a shirt. My mother would be taking pictures Christmas morning, and I knew she would hate this bright orange shirt, and that is precisely why I wore it. This orange shirt was my rebellion.
You see, this wasn’t just any bright orange shirt; this was the type of orange that needed batteries to be so bright. The orange color was so loud, you could hear it coming from a mile away. It was traffic cone-orange. It was bad spray tan-orange. It was electric. This orange shirt + camera = not a happy mother.
We fought for what seemed like hours over this stupid shirt. I simply didn’t understand why it mattered what shirt I wore and therefore refused to change; Mommy didn’t understand why it was such a big deal to just suck it up and change shirts, so she refused to let me open presents until I changed. Eventually I played the well-you-married-some-guy-from-Virginia-and-it’s-messing-up-my-whole-Christmas-so-I-should-be-able-to-wear-whatever-shirt-I-want card (I do not at all feel this way now, and I probably didn’t then either. Mark is awesome, and he has not messed up a single Christmas for me, but only made them better) and my mom gave in and let me wear the hideous orange shirt. After all, the guilt card pretty much trumps all.
Thing is, though, you can only beat Mom in an argument once. The next year we received a new set of pajamas on Christmas Eve to wear the next morning when opening presents. I therefore did not wear the awful orange shirt. Well done, Mommy. You win this round.
Although really, I win, too. What’s not to love about new pajamas!?