Page 30 of What You Wish For

“True. But you can decide todo something joyful.”

I considered that.

“You can hug somebody. Or crank up the radio. Or watch a funny movie. Or tickle somebody. Or lip-synch your favorite song. Or buy the person behind you at Starbucks a coffee. Or wear a flower hat to work.”

I shook my head. “One flower hat can’t fix all my problems.”

“No, but it can sure help.”

I sighed.

“It’s not about fixing all your problems, anyway,” Max said. “You’ll never fix all your problems.”

“Well, that’s encouraging.”

“The point is to be happy anyway. As often as you can.”

I let out a shaky sigh.

“I know you’re scared,” Max said, squeezing my hand. “But you’re going to get up tomorrow and put on that crazy hat and walk over to school… and no matter what, you’ll be better for it.”

I wanted to believe that. “How do you know?” I whispered.

“Because,” Max said, “courage makes everything easier next time. And I’m not going to let you live your life in fear.”

The next day, I wore the hat to school.

And—just as predicted—all anybody noticed was the hat.

The kids were beside themselves with delight—and so were the teachers. I could see it in their faces when they saw me—the happy surprise of it. People lit up when they saw me—and stayed bright as they walked away, carrying that feeling off to whatever they were doing next, and whoever they’d see, passing it on.

Nobody talked about the car accident, or the seizure, or the fact that my life had just collapsed in on me. We talked about the hat. Where had it come from? What was it made of? What did it feel like to wear it around?

“Fabulous,” I’d say, and I meant it.

Did the hat solve everything? Of course not.

But it brought me flashes of joy every time I saw it ignite joy insomeone else. It shifted my ratio of “okay” to “not okay” just enough that I could function, and go to work, and do my job.

It wasn’t a lifeboat, exactly—maybe more like a preserver. Just enough to hold on to.

But it worked.

That realization changed my life. My whole way of dressing and being in the world. My quiet wardrobe of tans and navies was gone within the year—replaced by polka dots and stripes, beads and fringe, and bright pinks, oranges, and blues. While I waited for my hair to grow back, I took to wearing headscarves, and big polka-dot sunglasses, and flowered leis as necklaces.

I got so addicted to color that, once I had hair again, I dyed my bangs cotton-candy pink.

I’m telling you: The year after that first seizure, I had arenaissance.

A fashion renaissance.

Mostly at Target, of course. (Right?I wasn’t going to Paris on a school-librarian’s salary.) A budget-conscious renaissance, but a renaissance all the same: scarves, purses, necklaces, striped knee socks, platform sandals, circle skirts, lipstick. The crazier and more colorful, the better. All the color I’d spent my entire life avoiding came flooding back in—as well as the fabrics, the movement, the textures.

I may have gone a little bit overboard. It’s possible I tilted a bit more toward “circus clown” than fashionista that first year. But it didn’t matter. The transformation saved me. It gave me something to do—something to look forward to and get excited about. It gave me a way to call attention to myself that was positive.

In a situation full of downsides, it was undeniably an upside.

I might never drive again, but dammit—I had a fun wardrobe.

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