Hat trick anyone?

I was riding the recumbent bike at the gym the other day when a woman in her mid-sixties sat down next to me. As she started to pedal, she looked over and asked me what my hat said. I glanced in the mirror and smiled as I realized it was a baseball cap from an old corporate client of mine — “old” as in back when I had my agency. I don’t wear this hat often and must have grabbed it by mistake as I hustled out the door to beat the morning gym rush. As I thought of my agency, I felt a bit nostalgic, but I told the woman the name of the client, and what the cap said. Then I followed up with, “I didn’t realize I was wearing this hat.” Now it was her turn to smile. She turned to me with a mischievous grin and said, “That’s life isn’t it? We never know which hat we’re wearing.” There were several gym rats within hearing distance and we all laughed. I heard an “Amen” from a woman on the treadmill. She had on a beanie hat.

As I left the gym that day, I thought about all of the hats I’ve worn in my life — whether I knew I was wearing them or not. As I tried to mentally put labels on each hat, I realized that this exercise required pen and paper. My first entry was “My mother’s daughter and my father’s little girl.” From there I felt as if I went on an amazing journey of recognition and awakening (or rather re-awakening). I tried to remember all of the hats I wore as a child. There were many, including my favorite Easter bonnet, and the white (as in always visible) Bell motorcycle helmet I wore while dirt bike riding with my family in the desert. Next I moved on to “someone’s sister, someone’s granddaughter, someone’s niece... .” I worked through my list chronologically. For instance, I didn’t list “someone’s aunt” until I became someone’s aunt. I covered the entire hat rack, including student hats, career hats, girlfriend hats, wife hats and my cherished “other” mother (as in step-mom) hats.

For me, this exercise was fun. I love hats and wear them often. I get some ribbing from friends who think of me as a dash eccentric, but I also get considerable compliments. Either way, it doesn’t matter. I choose to wear hats because I like them. In high school and college, I wore berets, news caps and other fun little numbers that are back in style today. I have my favorite fly-fishing hat. It’s an Australian Outback hat that I’ve worn for over 16-years — it has an Indian nickel headband and many great flies at the ready. My point is that I wear many hats. Some hats I put on purposely and others, not so much.

It’s like Forrest Gump’s (or rather, his mother’s) philosophy... “life is like a box of chocolates.” For me, life is one huge hatbox and has been for as long as I can remember. Like that metaphorical box of chocolates, my hatbox is pretty much the same. I never know what I’m going to get.

Every day we’re called upon to wear many hats — mother, father, daughter, son, sister, brother, friend, boyfriend, girlfriend, boss, employee. Whatever hat we wear is who we are at that given moment. Sometimes we wear several hats simultaneously. Sometimes we go hatless. I know from experience that whenever I go hatless that my hair flies everywhere and if the weather is nice I’m in danger of getting a sunburned nose. I usually enjoy my rare hatless days, as these are the carefree times when I don’t worry about everything and everyone in my life. I’ve learned to cherish the moments and keep rubber bands and zinc oxide handy for those blustery and sunny days. Sometimes though, when a hatless day comes on the heels of several days of wearing (and changing) many hats, I can get flustered and not know what to do with myself.

Father’s Day was one of those days. My stepsons spent the day with my husband and me. They came early and we had breakfast at a favorite Mexican restaurant. After we returned home, the boys and their father relaxed, napped and watched the U.S. Open. It was just like old times. It was a lazy Sunday afternoon watching golf on TV. This time though, there was hardly enough room on the sectional for all of those long legs. Later, the boys went to the grocery store and bought food for dinner. Then they proceeded to cook a fabulous meal, complete with sautéed shrimp appetizers and fruit and toffee for dessert. They also did the clean-up afterward. I was given one rule, but it was a biggie. I could only help (or offer advice) if they asked me. I helped them find the right pots and pans, and I took inventory before they went to the store while they wrote out their shopping list. I even found the baster for the grill, but I was not allowed to wear the “mother” hat or the “supervisor” hat. I was especially not allowed to wear the “critique” hat. I bit my tongue a few times, and then became resigned to my hatless predicament. Eventually, I wondered up to the loft with my husband and took a nap. I rarely nap, but this was a good one. There were no hats to get in my way. When I awoke, I had a few more queries from the boys as to where to find things, or which plates to use. At some point, I wandered into the kitchen and put on a hat that I didn’t know I owned — the “automatic pilot” hat. Then I returned to the loft to wait with my husband for what was beginning to smell like a wonderful meal. Not two minutes later, the 24-year-old came up and asked me why I turned off the oven. At first, I looked up at him with a blank stare. Then it dawned on me. While wearing the automatic pilot hat, I turned off the oven with the baked potatoes still cooking inside. No harm done. The potatoes came out perfectly an hour later, thanks to the big white (I’m in charge) chef’s hat our son was wearing at the time.

We ate outside on the deck and enjoyed a wonderful meal. I was in excellent company. My husband had his “proud father” hat perched jauntily on his head and the boys had on their “didn’t we do good” hats. The boys also wore another hat that evening. I realized that the eldest son was now a man, and the youngest was well on his way.

I’m glad that I did my hat exercise before Father’s Day, and took this journey into my past. It’s prepared me for my next project — sorting through my hat collection. I’ll pass some hats on, toss other hats out, and put a few away for a rainy day. I realize that wearing too many hats can cause us to live our lives on automatic pilot. We may not see something as clearly as we would if we just gave our hats a rest. I know that variety is supposed to be the spice of life, but too many hats is just too many hats. We’re apt to put them on even when we shouldn’t. It’s like that box of chocolates. We may not know what we’re going to get, but one thing is guaranteed. If we keep the box around for too long, whatever we get will be stale. There’s an expiration date for everything.

I've decided to keep only three of my hats handy. I’ll keep my “friend” hat on the hat rack. I know it will get a lot of use. I’ll pack my “mother” hat away for rainy days, as my boys are now my friends and need very little mothering. I will also wear my “friend” hat with my husband more often, because he’s my best friend. My fly-fishing hat will stay in its place of honor because it has special meaning to my family and me. The third hat that stays, I will keep to myself. I've learned that not all hats are meant to be worn in public. What about my other hats — as in daughter, sister, aunt, or writer? How will I get by without them? I’m not sure, but I think I’ll brave the elements and go hatless for a while. I may get wet, I may get sunburned, and I may get flustered. There’s also the chance that I may gain some clarity and see things that I’ve been missing while navigating my life on automatic pilot. Yes, I think I’ll take my chances. The “puck” stops here. That’s my hat trick. What’s yours?

Dedicated to the wise woman in the gym. I don’t know her name, nor have I seen her since. I do know that if I ever see her again that I owe her a big heartfelt thank you. Also, here's to the Dads. I hope you all had a great day!

© 2006 Teresa G. Franta