Day Four: Arrested Development
Quick one today, because I am about to go get a drink with Cookie, and if I do not hurry it up, she will come and smack me in the head with a stapler. Everyone around here knows that it is very important not to piss Cookie off. A few years ago, one of the partners nicknamed her “the Chinchilla,” which sounds sort of scandalous, but is actually quite apropos, because Cookie is adorable, and Cookie is little, but Cookie will cut you. She is sort of like Bo, only somewhat taller, and with a greater tolerance for beer. And she wears spectacular shoes. Bo refuses to wear shoes, even if I think they are pretty damn spectacular, myself. Crazy dog.
Anyway! So, Day Four, which is an interesting smorgasbord of just bad, and I still have braces in these pictures, which means they must have been taken prior to my entry into high school. I first got braces in the…fourth grade? Maybe fifth? I forget, but I had them for about two years, and then they took them off, and then they announced that I needed them again as soon as I started sixth grade, and I took this news with all of the grace and dignity of someone whose leg has been hacked off with a weed whacker. Or someone who has been smacked over the head by a stapler. Which is to say, a fair amount of hysterical screaming was involved.
And if you were wondering why I was so horrified at the notion of a braces encore, here is why that posed a problem.
Jaundice: It's everybody's problem.
These pictures, then, must have been from the tail-end of the braces days, which also marks the tail-end of the eighties, and therefore, the eighties fashions I so lovingly embraced. We were moving away from a time of jelly bracelets and puff paint and into a time where I longed to dress like Bridget Fonda from Singles, or Winona Ryder from Reality Bites. I stocked up on vests, black velvet chokers, cut-off jeans (which were verboten in my school, unless they were hemmed, which meant that all my jean cut-offs had to be professionally tailored, which seems to defeat the entire purpose of the grunge movement, but this was just an example of THE MAN TRYING TO KEEP ME DOWN and I probably wrote about it in a trapper keeper somewhere). In the years that followed, I would pair long dresses with lace-up Doc Martens, thermal shirts and girly skirts, and wear black tights with everything. Which…okay, I still wear black tights with everything, so maybe I should just shut up directly, but still. IT WAS DIFFERENT THEN. SOMEHOW. I THINK.
Anyway! Before I could get to that point, though, I experienced a period in which I could not seem to figure out how to dress myself, and this caused a reinvention similar to that of Madonna, only less attractive. I started private school in the middle of junior high, and was shocked by the difference in fashion. Now, I had to decide: would I be conservative? Would I be a rebel? WHO CAN DECIDE? This was apparently the dilemma with which I struggled, which you can clearly see by examining my attempt to pair preppy with puffy, as I wear a polo shirt underneath a tee shirt painted with a glorious selection of tropical fish:
HERE FISHY FISHY
I am clearly still having issues here, where I demonstrate what every yuppie camper needs: WEEJUNS.
Ziz smacked me with her ugly stick.
And finally, in a prime example of my attempts to self-define, we can see that I have ventured waaaaay too far into the conservative territory, picking up a page from the playbook of a deranged Laura Ingalls Wilder:
WTF HALF PINT?
Heeeee. What the hell, self? HONESTLY.
Anyway, that pretty much sums up this perio. I'm taking the weekend off, but will be back with Day 5 on Monday. Until then, y'all have a good weekend; I have got to go now, RIGHT NOW, or else face a chinchilla with a stapler, and that's just more than I can handle.
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