The Brat in the Hat

I have a fabulous hat. It’s like nothing else I own, in that it’s purple and wacky, and, well … a hat. I’m not a hat person. I’m not a person who sees hats in a store and rushes over to the rack “like a kid in a candy store” (a phrase I detest) and just has to try them on. I don’t do it, and not just because I kinda have this thing about not really digging lice. I just don’t do it. If I did, of course, I’d have to try on a lot of hats, and have someone film it, so I could then put together a really adorable montage set to music and then come up with a full-length screenplay in which to embed the scene.
So, anyway, I have this hat. And I just can’t seem to wear it yet without feeling like everyone is pointing and staring. Not because of the hat itself, because believe me, as far as New York City is concerned, it’s not the craziest or most outrageous thing (hat or otherwise) around town. No, I’m self-conscious because my experience with it is new. Although I bought it last year, I only wore it a handful (or headful) of times, because last winter wasn’t cold enough, and I was secretly “relieved”, because I wasn’t bold enough. It felt alien, like all of a sudden I sprouted a third head.
I’m always like this when I buy something that I’m not used to wearing. When the DOG bought me a gorgeous watch a few years ago, I couldn’t wear it without feeling like I had a blinking neon sign above my head with a huge arrow pointing down to my wrist. (For some reason the sign said “Girls! Girls! Girls!” No, I don’t know why.) Like I was the first person in the history of the watch-wearing world to ever sport a new watch. Quelle cretin.
So anyway, I’m determined this winter (which is supposed to actually be wintry) to make the experience of wearing this new hat … old hat.
And I’ll do it. Just watch!