Beware the Kitty Badger

The only thing better than spending a weekend in Paris is spending a weekend in Paris that happens to correspond to end-of-season boutique sales. When I visited a few weeks ago, everything in the shops was très chic, per usual. But at 60% off, it was finally in my price range—which gave me the perfect excuse to replace half my wardrobe. 

Was that necessary? No. But at Zara-level prices it was really hard not to. Besides, it was fun, as shopping usually is.

View this post on Instagram

Au revoir, Paris. It was lovely, per usual. #paris #france #travel #travelgram #wanderlust

A post shared by Nova Halliwell (@adviceineeded) on Jul 23, 2019 at 10:19am PDT

The high of my Parisian wardrobe lasted right up until this past Monday when I realized I had been wearing one of the blouses backwards. It was a mistake that I barely acknowledged much less corrected as I headed out to dinner with Johann that evening. 

“Ooo, new shirt,” he said. “Look at you!”

“You like it?” I asked. “Because I’m actually wearing it backwards.”

Johann did a double take. 

“I like it better this way,” I told him. “The only thing special about the shirt is the buttons. I don’t care if it’s wrong.”

“It doesn’t look wrong,” he agreed.

I shrugged. Then, just to prove a point that he never even cared about, I slipped off the shoulder straps and twisted the shirt around to be right-side front. 

“See?” I said, slipping the straps back into place. “Bo-ring!”

Johann was suspiciously quiet, which I did not take as a good sign.

“Don’t you think this way is boring?” I asked.

He paused. “You know, it looks nice that way!”

“It looks nice… or nicer?”

“Nice…rrr???” he asked, then shook his head and winced. “Just tell me what you want me to say. I’m confused.” 

Johann, by the way, isn’t someone I usually ask for fashion advice for this very reason. He is easily confused by things like exposed zippers or distressed fabric and leather trim. He assumes that these features are design flaws and when I explain that they not, he becomes agitated, like I told him that mosquitoes are the next big thing.

Like most people who are naturally good looking, Johann seriously underestimates the value of a good, flattering wardrobe. He bases his fashion choices on objective, yet obtuse, criteria like the quality of a snap and where wool has been sourced. Never once has he considered the introduction of color into his wardrobe, his personal motto being, If it comes in gray, yes I say. Because evidently that’s another thing that’s confusing to him: Red. What do you do even do with it? 

I am almost scared to pose the question on the wild wild west of the internet, but I will. Because I need to know: Backwards or forwards? Which do you prefer? Have I lost it? Did I ever have it? Please vote.

(Adding insult to injury, I cannot figure out how to rotate the pictures in the poll, which leaves both of the images sideways unless you click them to enlarge. Somehow, given the circumstances, I think that’s fitting. Enjoy…. and if you’re a subscriber, you’ll have to go to the original post to vote.)

Back in pre-poll Helsinki, I was undeterred by my wardrobe misstep. Convention has no place in my closet. Never has, never will. I have a long history of wearing shirts as dresses and scarves as shirts and neckties as headbands. Leggings as pants? I practically invented that. You know what else? Legwarmers as leggings. Think about that for five minutes and tell me you don’t see the potential.

“Whatever,” I told Johann as I twisted my shirt back around to the way I wanted it. “It’s more interesting this way.”

“Can’t argue with that,” he said wryly. “You’re wearing it backwards!”

“I never would have bought it if I knew it was supposed to be the other way,” I continued. “I’ve seen that shirt a hundred times. Why would I want that? What’s special about it?”

Johann nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “People just don’t think to wear their clothes backwards often enough.” 

“Be quiet,” I snapped. “I’m ahead of my time. Like all geniuses.” 

He nodded. “You are a real trailblazer.”

“An icon…” I countered. “A trendsetter. Maybe—”

“BADGER!” Johann yelled. 

“Not a badger,” I replied. “That’s just rude.”

“No! A badger!” Johann said, pressing himself against the window. “There’s a badger in the backyard!”

Sure enough, an animal that I had never before laid eyes on in real life was taking a waddle through the backyard, pausing for a beat under the clothesline as if he was considering making off with all our socks. He was bigger than I would have expected, about the size of a collie. And he was shockingly handsome, with a stark white face and a plush, bushy coat. So good looking was this badger that he looked like he just stepped off the page of a children’s book.  

Naturally, the first thing Johann and I did was try to take its picture. Sensing the commotion from indoors as we scrambled for our phones and shouted profanities at one another in two languages, the badger immediately scampered off into the bushes, which left Johann and me with a nice selection of photos of several tree trunks and a berry bush. Undeterred, we sat at the window, attention rapt with our fingers on our iPhone shutters waiting for him to return. When a hint of movement on the terrace caught my eye, I turned my head slowly, fully expecting the badger to enter from stage left. Instead I caught sight of yet another animal.  

“Oh shit!” I yelled. “The cat!”

Referring to it as “the cat” is a little misleading. In fact, it was Johann’s parents’ cat and the one thing we were supposed to be doing was watching it. Obviously, we got tired of that, which is why the cat was now in a harness and tied to a lawn chair on the terrace. As she stood there, immobile and meowing in the direction of the badger bushes, she looked less like an indoor/outdoor pet and more like a sacrificial lamb awaiting slaughter.  

“WHERE’S THE BADGER?” Johann yelled, sticking his head out the window.

I’m not sure who he was talking to. As of five minutes ago, I barely realized badgers were real animals. Furthermore, I’m not sure he should be looking for answers from someone who, at the time, was wearing 50 percent of her clothing backwards. 

I looked out the window and then opened the back door. 

“I’m going to get her,” I said.

“Badgers are mean,” Johann answered, apropos of nothing.

“And?” I asked.

“They will attack if they’re cornered,” he explained.

“OK, well I’m not going to harass the badger,” I said as I clomped down the back steps. “I’m just going to get the cat.”

It was in this moment, as I tempted fate with a wild animal, that I finally understood what it was to be a Halliwell. Sure, I may not be strangling a rat with my bare hands or shooting mosquitos with a salt gun or chasing a bear through the backyard while banding two garbage can lids as cymbals, but still… I was in the thick of it, living up to my name. Marching into a place where I did not belong, starting a fight I was not prepared to finish and still somehow oddly confident, self-righteous even, about my odds. I was barefoot and backwards, but I had honor on my side. And yes, I may have been the one to attach the cat to patio furniture in the first place, but goddamn if I was going to stand idly by while she got walloped by a second-rate trash panda. This is my mission. This is my legacy.

“Are badgers stupid?” I asked Johann as I unclipped the cat and gathered her into my arms. “Because it would be stupid to mount an attack on something six times your size.”

“A wolverine does,” he answered. 

“Well that wasn’t a wolverine,” I shot back as I walked into the house. 

And thank god for that. None of us would have lived to tell the tale if it was a wolverine. But hey – that’s a risk I’d be willing to take. Worst case scenario, at least I’d look good in death. They would mourn my loss and my style, backwards as it may be.