Let Freedom Reign.

Royal Magistrate: “The prisoner wishes to say a word.”
William Wallace: “Freedom!”
-Braveheart

My mother’s photo albums are filled with faded pictures and polaroids, a catalogue of time past and memories tucked away only to be pulled out over laughter and sparkling wine.

The tiny girl in a too-small t-shirt and rubber boots roaming the plains of my own hundred acre woods. A tiny bundle in my mother’s arms. Locks of warm brown hair and long, dark eyelashes hinting at mischief, perched in my father’s arms on a Mother’s Day long ago. Warm in my footed, polyester pajamas, a childhood fire hazard of the seventies. Pulling construction paper stars from the wall, counting the days to Santa’s arrival. My debut as a designer, naked save construction paper crowns and toilet paper wrappings. Looking through the images in my mind, I see the girl inside the woman today.

I’m either in clothes. Or not.

I have a love-hate relationship with clothing. I spend my work days proper and polished – jet blacks and creamy ivories splattered with bright color and glistening touches, simple sheaths covering my frame in confidence and comfort. The 3.5-inch peep toes that I slip comfortably into each morning even the playing field in the all-too-often male-dominated playing field that towers over me, my diminutive stature belying the tenacity of my will. The single diamond that I once wore is long gone and unusual earrings my only embellishment, the jewelry in the box forsaken but not forgotten.

But home is where the heart is, and for all my reticence and caution, I wear my heart on my sleeve. And my heart likes to be comfortable.

It does not like the bra straps that constrict and confine, panty lines that cut and that chafe. It does not like socks that sag and sweaters that scratch. It does not like Spanx that cinches and suffocates and nylons that itch and tear and roll. It does not like zips and buttons and snaps that bunch and nip and squish.

My heart … and my body … like freedom.

But naked is not permissible for the girl that has become a woman. There’re laws about that sort of thing. But on Sundays the little girl inside runs free. Pjs and barefeet reign, and cozy cups of tea are sipped on the patio in the morning quiet. Her wild mane piled high, her face clean of the socially required mask all women wear. The smell of laundry soap and clean dishes and the sounds of Sunday morning cartoons filling the house. 

And tiny feet peek out as they lounge and race and giggle and argue the Sunday away, wearing their hearts on the sleeves of their pajamas.