"You're not normal," I'm told, "because you don't care about clothes."
I care about clothes. I care that they're comfortable. I care that they're durable. I care that they cover everything they need to. That's why I lounge around in Bermuda jean shorts and T-shirts whenever I can help it.
Fashion? Hmph! My last reincarnation made dresses out of flour sacks. Talk to her about fashion!
But then I think back. Back to the eras that even my old soul has never seen. Back to those eras of history relegated to books and legends and historians and the nerds ostracized by today's society even though they rule it.
You see, back in the high off and far away days of the Vikings, there was a man. Don't ask me his name. My brain is full of more important information, like the population density of an island that doesn't exist.
Let's just call him Fred.
Fred, like any decent Viking man, got into a fight. Perhaps it was a war. I don't remember the particulars--my brain is full of more important information, like the eye color of a character who died seventeen years before the book starts and is only mentioned once in the sequel.
Anyhow, Fred gets injured in this fight. So terribly injured that he's carried off the field of battle and tended to by a doctor. Now, just like today's physicians, this doctor liked to work on naked patients. He tried to take off Fred's pants to assess his injuries.
His pants wouldn't come off.
The doctor rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "Fred, you're too worried about fashion. Your pants are far too tight!"
Fred groaned. "I don't care about fashion," he said. "Not one bit!"
The doctor looked at Fred's leg a little closer.
"Oh! I'm sorry, Fred! There's a spear through your leg. No wonder your pants won't come off! Nurse--nurse, fetch me that axe over there. Sorry about this, Fred. You'll do great with a peg leg."
In other words, Vikings wore skinny jeans. They also wore eyeliner and tweezed their eyebrows and bleached their hair with lye. But don't ask me where I learned all this. My brain is full of more important information, like the fact that the first functional prosthetic was a wooden toe used by an Egyptian.
Well, it seems that this generation isn't the first to care about fashion. And it seems that I'm not the first weirdo to question the clothing choices of the majority. Which is good. It's always fun to realize that people share your peculiarities.
M. J. Piazza is a Jesus-loving, dog-walking country girl who just so happens to write books.