I have the worst fashion sense. My closet is a sea of black, brown or if I’m feeling adventurous, tan. Ever since I left my job in August all I wear are yoga pants. Sexy, I know. In the summer I’m sure to break out some khaki shorts, but not short-shorts; the dimplage on my legs makes me throw up in my mouth and as I found out recently in a shared dressing room experience with my 12 year old daughter..”it’s quite disturbing.”
My Mom (Sally) is a great dresser. She can throw outfits together like nobody’s business. In fact, when I have events back home I don’t bother to pack much because I know she’s got my back, right down to the shoes and accessories. I simple pull out what I’m going to wear, she takes one look at me and we’re off to her closet.
That’s why to this day I can’t understand what went wrong at my Grade 8 graduation. I obviously needed a dress and as always Sally was going shopping with me because she loved to be in charge involved in the decision. It wasn’t an easy job buying clothes for me. I wasn’t a willing participant. I was chunky and hated how clothes clung to my stomach rolls. It made me very uncomfortable and self conscious. So needless to say I was always in baggy, frumpy clothes.
Thank God for Parachute pants. Barf.
Every dress I tried on was too poofy, frilly, lacy or tight. Probably because they actually touched my skin. Plus I was 13, grumpy, listened to heavy metal and just wanted to shuffle home in my high tops and concert shirt and wallow in my room.
As I recall we didn’t come to an agreement, which I’m sure was frustrating for Sally but equally painful for me, after all I was the one who had to wear a dress. Finally one day she just brought home a dress. I didn’t question. It fit. Decision made.
On the night of the graduation I stuffed myself into this foreign material feeling shy and awkward. All the other girls seemed to be doing just fine in their pretty little frilly things. I hunched my shoulders and went to my seat, passing some late people coming up the aisle. Since my glance was downward I spied the dress first. We were side by side. Just me and the person wearing the same dress as me.
Horror. It couldn’t get worse.
I slowly lifted my gaze.
It was somebody’s Mother…
I died a little inside. Sally did too.
I hadn’t thought about it for years until Facebook (the nasty prick) came along and someone tagged me in a picture for the entire world to see.
Thanks Izzy! Love you!
Once again I was forced to erase my memory of this event and had successfully done so until a few weeks ago when I had to buy something with bright colours to wear to see Oprah. It took forever. Since I still carry the same body image as my 13 year old self nothing I found looked good on me and Sally was miles away. Finally I just made a decision out of exhaustion and went with a bright orangey pink blouse.
(Side note: Do we still say blouse?)
After the show I saw these two cute old ladies coming our way and I turned to my firend to remark about seeing our future, but has I did something drew my eye back to them.
One walked with a cane, wore polyester pants and (drum roll) was sporting the same blouse as me.
This memory will never ever die.
And the blouse (?) will never be seen again.
On a positive note, I totally would’ve kicked her ass in a Who Wore It Best competition.