Finding Sense in the Nonsense

I often wonder how and why I have arrived at this particular place in my life at this particular time in my life.

You may be interested to know that the answer is always the same: I have no idea how or why.

What I do know is that I like to laugh at all the errors I made along the way to becoming the person I am today. The errors will likely be funnier when I can appreciate them from a place of being wholly successful, wholly content, and/or wholly self-aware.

Wholly whole, I suppose, is the goal here.

But right now I will just have to settle for holey whole.

If you are as awkward as me, then you can understand that there was quite a lot to laugh at before I became the partial-butterfly with big aspirations that I am this very day. One such period of time came to mind as I was leafing through a photo album recently.

In 1990, I was twelve, I was in sixth grade, and I was an active participant in perpetuating what I can view in retrospect as being a rather abysmal t-shirt movement of the times. What I did not realize then, and have only just begun to understood now, is how this whole t-shirt debacle was indicative of my general development as a human being.

As a middle-schooler in a Massachusetts suburb in 1990, t-shirts were very big. Literally. There was an art to wearing the t-shirt, and the first criterion was to wear your t-shirts approximately five sizes too large, tuck them into your pants and then “blouse” them out. It was then essential that the sleeves be rolled two to three times. It seems rather counterintuitive to have to roll up the sleeves and thereby completely strip the garment of its main practical purpose, but fashion is a long and loyal friend to irony, I suppose. Of equal significance to the manner in which the shirt was worn, were the actual brands involved. “Vaurnet” t-shirts, preferably exhibiting multiple neon colors, were quite popular, as were “Co-ed Naked” t-shirts.

The latter variety had terribly hokey and mildly perverse sayings that somehow translated as being scandalous to most adolescents (and were therefore extremely cool), and innocuous enough that parents or school administrations could not easily ban them. Additionally, and at the heart of my recollections, there were these ridiculous t-shirts which featured, perplexing as this fact remains, dinosaurs engaging in various sporting activities.

The idea behind these “Saurus” shirts was to wear the t-shirt with the specific dinosaur that was pursuing your particular athletic activity of choice, and the words “Football-a-Saurus” or “Ballet-a-Saurus” or whatever was below the illustration of the dinosaur wearing and carting around the appropriate equipment for the cited endeavor.

I wonder now if this t-shirt line was limited to only stegosaurus, brontosaurus, and whatever other members of the dinosaur species possessing names ending in “-saurus.” I cannot recall a pterodactyl being depicted, but I could be wrong. That being said, I would understand if someone who sported a “Basketball-a-Dactyl” now felt resentful towards me.

Something that eludes me entirely is how, where, and why a dinosaur made the final cut as the featured mascot. Admittedly, at the time I did not think about it, but just accepted it as cool. Now that I am considering the reasoning behind the selection, I am baffled. Who wants to be a dinosaur? And, how exactly are dinosaurs acceptable emblems for athleticism? As you may have guessed, I am not an expert on prehistoric creatures; however, I have seen Jurassic Park. Frankly the dinosaurs stomping around in that film were hardly displaying qualities typically associated with athletic competence. They seem neither particularly agile nor especially coordinated. As with so many of life’s unsolved mysteries, I feel I am missing a vital piece of the puzzle.

In any case, my brother had “Tennis-a-Saurus” and “Hockey-a-Saurus” t-shirts. This situation made sense as he was quite involved in and exceptionally good at both sports. My best friend, a gifted athlete, did not even seek the shirts out, but was given, on various occasions, a “Soccer-a-Saurus” a “Swim-a-Saurus” and what seemed like a host of other, apt, “Saurus” shirts she could wear with effortless pride. I remember wanting desperately to wear a t-shirt of my own that revealed my specific athletic talents to the world and proclaimed me as a part of a recognizable group. Unfortunately, there was not a sport with which I identified, or one for which I showed any real aptitude.

They did not make (oddly enough), a “Reading-a-Saurus,” which probably would have been the best suited shirt for me, although it would not have been a very cool proclamation by middle school standards. Evidently, and just like the cool crowds I have witnessed in both various movies and in the real life drama of junior high school, these saurus’s were not terribly scholarly, just quite sporty.

Now, as I write these words, it seems evident that these shirts were representative of a hope to prove that I belonged somewhere and somehow. It is true that the shirts themselves were nothing more than an utterly unfortunate trend of the early 1990’s, but they were also indicative of something larger. I wanted to wear a t-shirt to fit in on a merely superficial “fashionable” level, but I also wanted to secure a sense of validation that I was good at something, and that, as a result, I was making a valuable contribution to the world.

I can ascertain that, subconsciously, it was an incredibly appealing prospect to know enough about myself and the talents I possessed had to offer that I could wear it on my chest. It was an appealing concept at the insecure age of twelve. Frankly, it is appealing now, at the equally but differently insecure age of 32. It was disappointing that I could not find the shirt that accurately represented my talents and proficiencies when it seemed like others were proclaiming them with ease and pride all over the place.

Now, as I often grasp at straws to make sense of what my exact contributions are to this world, I am astounded that those same feelings still rear their (dinosaur?) heads with alarming frequency.

In the end, I wound up with a rather sad little collection consisting of two “Saurus” t-shirts. They were both inapplicable to my life and it felt terribly unsatisfying, even fraudulent, to wear the shirts. Frankly, it was depressing to try to fit a mold for which I was so clearly not cast. They did not accurately sum me up, and now I see that no t-shirt could, can, or ever will. Although when I think of myself at age twelve, I do think a brontosaurus with a frizzy hair and braces, clutching a book with the words “Awkward-a-Saurus” below it might not have been that far off.
Then or today—minus the braces.

Improbably enough, it seems that some pretty deep soul searching can be inspired from a dinosaur playing field hockey. The transparency of the desire for acceptance is quite apparent now. Of course, in adolescence we are constantly questioning and evolving because we truly do not have any idea who we are or who we will be. Yet there is a definite undercurrent of feeling pressured to know something about yourself and how you will make an indelible contribution to the world in general. At age twelve, I was not yet aware that success is not all about athletic prowess—nor did I seem to know that it is not at all about sporty dinosaurs.

Countless other material possessions dubbed as “cool” or “necessary” have been (and doubtlessly will be) encountered in any given day, month, or year. In retrospect, they are often amusing, occasionally mortifying, and sometimes completely forgotten. Those shirts represented a vehicle expediting the messy business that is belonging. Remembering them now is a humorous reminder that the path to feeling like a validated and valued human being is about as inexplicable, unpredictable, and absurd as a ballet-dancing dinosaur.