Again, a brief disclaimer- laptops dead, my nook is like that kid that failed French except nook failed html code. Twice. He is an IT school dropout. So my blog formatting and spelling, editing, all that will suck. Blame my nook. At least he isn't in the back alley snorting glue. Yet.
So my friend over at http://getoffmyroads.blogspot.com and I got addicted to http://yeahwrite.me and then she decided we'd do our own blog challenge. This weeks topic is, favorite clothing.
Most teens will sneak into their room and secretly smoke a cigarette or watch a naughty movie or whatever. While certainly not naive. I was "straight edge" as a teen, never did drugs, and generally listened to my parents, weird, I know. However, I did sneak into my room to do something taboo and I am ashamed to admit it. I wore a dress. Yes, I am female so why is a dress so taboo? Well, it made my look like a hobo or street child from Oliver Twist meets a prostitute an I loved every threadbarren, see through, dusty thread of the damned dress. It was a beige voile sun dress with flowers, reminiscent of curtains a grandma would have, but for some reason that dress transformed me (even if in my own crazy little head) into something awesome. My flat-chested, 74 lb middle school self, with scraggly hair and pimples, became a super model in that dress...well, so I thought. I felt good in it and self esteem goes a long way in middle school, even if it is fabricated. As I progressed through middle school, I went from the shortest skinniest kid, to the second shortest kid, thanks to Michelle Kwan. No joke, before she ran off to the olympics, she was in my science class and for the first time ever ,I was the second shortest. Then she left but an amazing thing happened. Girls stopped growing. Meanwhile, being a late bloomer, I shot up in height and by my senior year, I stopped growing and reached a whopping height of 5'4". My beloved dress, however, did not grow with me. By my freshman year, it barely covered my panties region, and had tears from it not quite fitting in girth. It smelled like an attic and was so threadbarren that I feared if I sneezed, it might disintegrate. My parents were disgusted by it, and it was showing more of me than anyone but a pedophile wanted to see. We had an intervention and I was told to throw it away. I, like any bad addict, lied and said I did, but I continued to wear it in secret, in my bedroom, for at least another month until one day, I went to put it on and riiiiiip. The sleeve tore off, taking some chest with it, and I sadly had to throw it away for good.
You'd think I would learn from that dress, but you'd be mistaken. In college, I discovered the glory that is blue jean skirts. I could stay cool in hot weather, look kinda girly, but still feel tomboy-like. And everyone knows jeans go with EVERYTHING. Nothing to wear with a reindeer Christmas sweater? Nay nay, you have the jean skirt! Sparkly pink tank top? Goes with the skirt! Metallica tee? Yup, sure, pair it with the skirt. (Yeah my fashion sense sucked.) I gained the freshman 15 (umm, 30, thanks to all you can eat pasta, pizza, and soda at the University cafeteria) and I had to buy a different jean skirt, but who cared, right? After a steady diet of pizza and beer I somehow lost a few pounds and had to buy yet another jean skirt. I found her at Marshall's. A bit fluted at the bottom, made of sewn together strips of jean fabric, she was a classy knee length a-line with flair. I could gain or loose a few pounds, and no matter what, she magically adjusted and fit. I wore her in college, with my bad fashion sense, and beyond, into marriage when my fashion began to redeem itself. I wore her into a terrible time of fashion when no one had jean skirts, but hello, jeans are timeless people. Timeless. She began to shed threads at the ends, warp and curl, fade, but like an old wine, she was awesome, better with age, I told myself. I recall when I was pregnant, of course, she didn't fit, but I recall the day I could fit in her again an it was marvelous. Like reuniting with an old friend. But fate would separate us. My hubby said I looked like a hobo. But I wore her some more. I started to get sympathetic looks from strangers when wearing her, so, in my old ways, I began to only wear her at home. Well ok I might have worn her to check the mail or get gas but I lived in a town of drugged up hillbillies so it was ok. Or so I told myself. Vacation time came and I packed her for my trip to Chicago and hubby put his foot down. We had an intervention and I sadly retired her. But guess what? Thanks to the atrocious 80s styles coming back, jean skirts are en vogue again! But I am not ready. No one will ever be as good as THE jean skirt. Every skirt is flawed. Too stretchy, too short, too dark, ugly with gold buttons. Apparently, I am not ready to move on.