On Sunday afternoon, after a lovely morning at the cinema watching Despicable Me 2, we drove to Waitrose to acquire some groceries for a late lunch. As we were pulling in, Husband and I were having a discussion about something or other, one of the usual things that we chunter on about in the car, you know, like how we feel about what’s going on in Israel, the price of baked beans and whether the dog needs his anal gland expressed. I can’t remember what it was in particular (probably because I’m in shock) but in the course of the conversation, my Husband called me The ‘C’ Word.

Yep. My Husband, the man for whom I carried a child, the man whose pants I wash and meals I cook, called me the worst word he could ever have uttered. I was genuinely shocked at first because I had no idea he felt that way about me. After seven and a half years of sharing your life with a person, you get to a point where you know each other well and you feel like you know exactly how they feel about you, how they view you as a person. But to drop the ‘C’ bomb on your wife? Well, I was beside myself.

Before I go on, I should probably clarify which ‘C’ word it is that I actually mean. Are you ready? Brace yourself…

He called me…*looks around to make sure no kids are listening*…a CONFORMIST!

ShockA close approximation of the look on my face, after the dropping of the C Bomb

How dare he call me a conformist? I’m the girl who, when my friends went through their ‘Goth’ phase, would go out with them dressed head to toe in pink. I’m the girl who has argued vociferously against The Beatles, simply because I hate being told  that they’re the greatest band ever and that I should love them. I’m the girl who wore Dr. Martens to primary school when all of my friends were wearing Mary Janes. I’m the girl who answered back, the naughty kid in class, the one who got kicked out of sixth form for frequent bunking.

I have opinions, ones that I’ll voice whenever the hell I want and usually as forcefully as I can. I’ll talk about anything, religion, politics, current affairs. I’m passionate about feminism, human rights, the demonisation of youth. I’m not just a ‘shut up and do nothing’ type.

But, as I look down at my safe Mummy uniform (beige cardi, muted green vest, sensible John Rocha jeans and a pair of loafers), my Cath Kidston bag and my long, highlighted bob, I begin to wonder. 

Yes, I have opinions, opinions which aren’t shared by everyone. But am I hiding?

As we were walking out of Waitrose, I saw a girl with hair that was that most beautiful shades of pink and purple, a teenager with her Dad, and I thought “I used to have pink hair…I’m probably too old for pink hair now”. And that thought saddened me a bit. I’m not saying that I actually want pink hair, what I’m saying is that there is still a non-conformist inside of me, but I’ve hidden her under a bushel of ‘appropriate’ grown up clothes and outward conformity.

I don’t want to be the same as everyone else. So why do I feel, suddenly, like I am?

I’m not giving up my Cath Kidston bag though.