When I was little (before I could pick out my own clothing), my mom dressed me in everything hip. I wore bows that matched my outfit. I was the epitome of color-coordination in polka dots (pictured below, obviously) and, more often, lace. My Halloween costumes were overly adorable. I was a mini-model, a Barbie doll (maybe closer to Kelly or Stacie?), a test subject with my mom as scientist.
And then I started to dress myself…
and this, of course, was a disaster. I went the route of Tomboy, my dinosaur chic present to the world. And I did not grow out of this for quite some time.
Now, I’m sort of a mix of little and bigger me. My style has reversed; I’m trying to capture the ultra-matched child I used to be, while holding on tightly to my love of off-kilter and weird. Oftentimes, I don’t get it right, the style. I try so hard to wear the clothes that say “hey, I belong,” but a shirt just doesn’t sit right or a shoe peeps awkwardly from the bottom of a pant leg. Who knew that even at 23, I’d still have this trouble, that no matter how much older I get, I’ll never lose the girl who can’t quite dress herself. Or maybe…I just miss my mom.
An on-the-spot poem about my dinosaur shirt:
I used to own you,
I wore you as I skated
down the sidewalk
in front of grandma
But I gave you away,
threw you away,