Scrappy Little Nobody(35)
fashion
Suit Up
In third grade my fashion hero was Claudia from the Baby-Sitters Club books. She was into fashion and junk food and art and being Japanese. I was into the first two things, so I figured I could model myself after her. I used to reread every description of her outfits (usually found in chapter two, where the POV character describes the other club members), and I compiled them all in a notebook. When my family went to the mall I’d stay on the lookout for things like purple high-tops and printed turtlenecks. Unfortunately, the books were written in the mid-eighties and it was 1993, so my fashion hero was pretty “five minutes ago” but would be right on point today. What’s that? The mid-eighties are out again? AND the mid-nineties are out? 2002 is in? Wasn’t that like three years ago??
Since I could never find what I needed to precisely re-create Claudia’s every outfit, I settled for coveting the most absurd-looking articles of clothing at Contempo Casuals or T.J. Maxx. I was eight years old at this point, and my mother had a brilliant plan: occasionally buy me a stupid-looking outfit, let me wear it, and I’d get it out of my system before I got to high school.
For the most part, “stupid-looking” was the worst offense: stretch pants with sequined piping from my brother’s Michael Jackson Halloween costume, a sweatshirt with an iron-on appliqué and puff paint, a massive faux mother-of-pearl daisy necklace—ya know, stupid-looking. Some of it, though, was hilariously “provocative.” My favorite piece was a black halter top that tied in the back and around the neck. Over it, I wore a sheer white collared shirt with black velvet polka dots, tied up at the bottom. I looked dope. I think I even wore it in our class picture. On its intended customer, this halter top probably would have shown off the navel and full abs as well as a generous helping of cleavage. On me (the eight-year-old fetus) it covered my entire torso, almost up to my neck. It was the equivalent to a toddler wearing an actual dress Paris Hilton got up-skirted in—they’d smell like a stripper but they’d look like a nun.
It caused something of a stir among the other parents. They’d chirp to my mother, “Wow, you let your daughter wear a halter top to school?”
“Yeah, why not, right? If I tell her what to wear now, she’ll just want to rebel even more when she’s sixteen.”
“Oooh, what a neat idea. Not for me, though, I could never let my kid dress like that.”
“Okay, but ten bucks says she’s gonna start dressing like a tramp the second she gets boobs.” Mom would actually wait and say that to me in the car, but it was still awesome.
Even at eight I knew it was pretty pathetic for someone else’s parents to care about what I wore. Perhaps it should have prepared me for my current state of affairs, where my clothing is the subject of professional debate for equally unaffected people. Bring on the critique, Fashion Police! My mom’s gonna have a wicked burn all lined up the second you turn your back!
When I got to middle school my style was informed by the rise of two movements: grunge (which had finally hit Maine) and my personal self-loathing. Even in the summer I wore long sleeves, because a schoolmate gently pointed out that the hair on my arms was dark and revolting. It’s gone away now after years of waxing and perhaps sheer force of will. If you still have dark hair on your arms maybe you don’t hate yourself enough. My mom told me that she had dark hair on her arms as a kid, but it went away as she grew up and the same thing would probably happen to me. (That doesn’t help me right now, idiot! I’m an abomination!!!) I made sure to find clothing that covered as much real estate as possible.
For the most part I had to shop in the kids’ sections of JC Penney and L.L.Bean, but large children’s sizes kept me plenty covered. There was an especially unfortunate plaid bucket hat, and a daisy-covered wallet with . . . a chain. The memory of this wallet chain pops up whenever I’ve been feeling too good about myself. I mostly used clothes as a means to avoid detection. It’s like I thought that if my shirts were baggy enough, I’d be mistaken for a pile of laundry that moved from class to class.
In high school, clothing became armor. Other girls dressed to accentuate whatever they were working with. Since I was working with nothing, I relied on my flared corduroys and a revolving collection of lewd Tshirts. Now, some of you will have to trust me on this, but there was a time before every douche bag had a “Jesus Is My Homeboy” shirt when printed tees were an actual novelty, especially to Mainers. Around fourteen, I discovered a store called Yellow Rat Bastard. (Shut up! That store used to be cool!) Every time I went to New York for an audition, I’d find my way to Prince Street and buy a funny and occasionally obscene T-shirt.
The shirts were always too big for me, so they hid the fact that I had the measurements of a hairless cat, and they were rude, so they gave off a real “I could dress in cute clothes if I wanted but I’m above it” vibe. One had a picture of Pee-wee Herman captioned “Pervert.” Another had the cast of Baywatch and the word “ORGY.” I layered them over long-sleeve waffle tees and took on the world. I can’t feel bad that I’m not one of the pretty girls if I’m actively making myself look weird! Loophole! I wanted to be sent home for my inappropriate clothing. Badly. True to form, though, I was terrified and filled with regret the only time a teacher mentioned it.
When Abercrombie & Fitch came to the Maine Mall and created a scramble among the wealthier kids to prove they could afford it, I shoplifted a shirt and wrote “Am I Popular Yet” across the chest with a marker. Suck it, fashion! I’m not your bitch!