Ahh, the hippies

Background: Several months ago, while checking in an extremely anxious patient for a procedure at work, I found myself joking with her in an attempt to help her relax. I can't remember what story I was telling her, but it must have been quite witty, because she turned to me and said "you know, Amy, you're so funny! Which is weird, because you look like a total SQUARE, until you open your mouth!". I was unsure how to process this information but, lucky her, I was feeling generous and didn't withhold any sleepy-medicine even though you really shouldn't borderline-insult the nurses working with the doctors who are going to be sticking tubes in various parts of your body.

So, yesterday. I spent the day in Bellingham ferrying my awesome mom to several appointments that required some anesthesia and a sober driver. I spent my middle- and high-school years around Bellingham (FHS class of '97, thank you very much) and sometimes forget how much I love the downtown Bellingham scene, since I just don't get up there much any more. For those of you unfamiliar, the town happens to be a breeding ground of Co-op grocery stores, fantastic restaurants featuring local, organic fare, and plenty of shopping in old, really cool buildings. You can get your bagels, locally roasted coffee, and meet all your incense needs within the span of one city block, then walk or bike down to the park and hit up the farmer's market. It's a pretty sweet town.

And we all know that where there are Co-ops and freshly baked bagels, there are hippies. I love the hippies the most.

There I was, sitting in a waiting room of an imaging center, and I couldn't even focus on my book, so engrossed was I in the people watching. These women! Beautiful, tall, lanky women, one after the other, sauntered up to the check-in desk in full-on hippie attire: long, graying hair flowing down their backs, touching the tops of their long, flowing skirts, which barely grazed the cuffs of their wooly socks and tips of their Birkenstock sandals. I'm pretty sure I was the only one sitting in the waiting room wearing a bra. To be fair, a majority of them were probably there for a mammogram, so I was willing to overlook (while still being baffled by) the lack of so much as a tank top to corral the contents of their chests.

The woman who sat down across from me totally stole the show. She was dressed in the proper hippie uniform, but the element that gave her the edge over all other hippies was the presence of her drink...some type of amber liquid (tea? bourbon? one never knows), consumed straight from a mason jar. That's right. A jelly jar, no lid, right there across from my Starbucks cup. At a doctor's office. It was too much.

I glanced down at my wardrobe and mentally inventoried the pieces that set me apart from these glorious hippies, the parts of myself that essentially make up my square-ish nature: khakis. Lavendar tank top and a short-sleeved cardigan. Danskos. A BRA. The fact that my darling, beloved cardigan was purchased years ago at a consignment store for seven dollars was my closest connection to these earth-loving, recycle-everything, vegan-diet-following, beautiful women.

So I totally pulled out my cell phone and texted my friend at work all about the hippie with her mason jar. And yes. I'm aware that this makes me the square in the waiting room with her Starbucks cup, cell phone, and properly restrained breasts, surrounded by flowy-skirted beauty. I stuck out like a sore thumb. It was awesome.