Childhood trauma costume
It's been a while, Three children attended the carnival party of their kindergarten, The oldest wore a garish green robe, moss-green paint on his face, and a chef's hat of pea-colored crepe. It looked as if it had disguised itself for Carnival as a hunter, who in turn disguised himself as a chef. The siblings were similarly decorated, only in orange red and shrill yellow. All three looked anxious; and when the kindergarten teacher asked what the costumes were, the oldest whispered: "We are a fruit basket: apple, blood orange and lemon."
The green apple, to be more precise, Granny Smith: That was me. The citrus fruits: These were my brothers. And as for the rest of the party, it was possible to roughly differentiate between four phases.
In phase one, the other kids tried to guess our red-green-yellow cooking outfit: Were we a kitchen team that also works as a reggae flag? Or three gummy bears with a degenerate hat taste?
In phase two, we came out - and the plenary decided that our costume was stupid, where the vote was made by loud laughter.
In phase three, my brothers fled - Now I was not even a fruit basket, but a lonely Granny Smith among pirates and princesses.
Finally, in phase four, the party company discovered that my costume was not so bad after all: You could joke about it - from applesauce to lazy apple.
Unfortunately, this embarrassment was not my only one: Such a Swabian children's carnival, at least then, had a certain dress code; one dressed as a princess or little witch, as an Indian or a pirate. My mother is a very creative woman. She did not see herself constricted by stuffy children's conventions - and therefore always put our costume together according to the following criteria: 1. It had to hand-made his. (Which meant you could not tell what it was supposed to be.) 2. No other child wore this robe, (It was so uncool.) 3. It was a Combination costume for three persons, (It was noticeable.) And so we went as panhandling Indio squad. As a toolbox. Or as a Nobel Peace Prize winner - Martin Luther King, Mother Teresa, Willy Brandt.
Now there are different strategies to deal with such a problem. At first we tried it with banal weeping. "Do not be so ungrateful," Mama said. "Otherwise, I will dress you as howling buoys or whining lobes." We got sick. "Great idea," Mama said, wrapping us head to toe in gauze bandages. "Now you go as a broken neck!" Finally, we decided to redefine our costumes in front of the other kids. I do not know if anyone except me ever tried to pose as a pirate in a Mother Teresa costume - It is not without problems: Sure, Mother Teresa wore a headscarf, as did many pirates. But it was white with blue edges, and the skull print was missing. Also, a rosary as bondage instrument is about as convincing as a saber as a monstrance. You have to watch the carnival party already very grim, if you only want to have a chance to be credible.
The strategy with which we escaped my mother's creativity was tedious, but simple: We grew up, Today my friends often wonder how they should masquerade at Carnival - for me it will always be the time to try to get rid of his costume. In the nights before, I have nightmares in which a tribe of giant princesses and pirates capture me. Treatises are read in which the word "costume crime" plays a not insignificant role. Then, a carnival band tunes a song to which a few fools torture me tickle. Then you throw me into a huge juicer.
Some youth experiences shape one just for a lifetime. So if you have children or grandchildren yourself, please! There are countless other ways to realize oneself. Dancing for example. Or Role playing during sex. You can dress up in both. If the partner is very open-minded, even as Granny Smith.
