Fashion Faux Pas Through the Ages

I've been thinking a lot lately about the way I dress, and particularly about my inability to find clothes I want to buy. When I shop, I have these elaborate fantasies of finding things that Sophia Loren would have worn in the 1960's, but all I can find are either a) teenager clothes, or b) things that Mama Cass would have worn in the 1960's. Since I'm trying very hard to not dress like a teenager anymore (and failing), it occurred to me that I have a European body instead of an American body. The only thing that will save me is a trip to Italy to buy an entire new wardrobe.

But the truth is, I've never been a fashionista. Ever. And I have proof. My sister and I used to affectionately call ourselves The Goodwill Sisters, presumably because if Goodwill Stores had advertised back in the day, we would have been their walking billboards.

Since most photos from my childhood are still in albums at my mom's house, I can only go back to about 1974 or so.

Here I am as Lady Godiva, at Swope Park in Kansas City, Missouri. This outfit was most likely purchased at Kmart, and my mother probably objected to it because it's obviously too tight. I have to confess that I still seem to be wearing clothes that, well, aren't baggy.


This is me in 1975? Here you see my very first pair of blue jeans. That's right; I was 13 before I ever had jeans. I wanted jeans so badly that I made sure they went halfway up my chest. Obviously, my philosophy was that chickens don't care what you wear. Also, I wore that blue t-shirt until it had holes in it.


One of the blizzards of the late 70's? I think this was my birthday, and my sister and I were tired of being cooped up in the house. So we both donned the bridesmaid dresses from our brother's wedding, grabbed our shawls, and went outside to illustrate the striking contrast between the piles of snow the snowplow had just left behind, and our keen fashion sense. No, that's not a snowball hitting the side of my head, it's a flower.


I believe we're at Kings Island in Cincinnati? 1976? That hat! That hair! I don't know!


I'm confused by the date on this photo. It says June 81, but I thought it was our parents' anniversary in August. It's very likely that the film stayed in the camera until the next year, when we finally had the photos developed. Anyway, the important thing is that my sister and I created an elaborate Italian dinner of spaghetti, and served it to mom and dad as an Italian man and woman, hence the penciled in moustache on my sister. This is as close as I ever got to dressing like Sophia Loren.


Here I am as a Senior in high school, flanked by two Indianapolis Colts football players who came to my school to play basketball. I want to reach through the photo to fix my collar and close my mouth. This was the first time I ever saw a man.


I can't explain this.


This is me as a 44-year-old mother, trying to resurrect my Lady Godiva phase. Please tell me I'm not in my underwear.


It's obvious I need help. There must be a world beyond cotton t-shirts, tank tops, and denim. If anyone would like to foot the bill for my shopping spree in Milan, please let me know.

This is not my blog.

This isn't really my blog. The real me is at another site; a site that crashed 3 or 4 days ago and is inoperable for at least another week. The site owners had to mail the drives containing all the site information to someone who could raise it from the dead, and the word is that recovering everything will cost more money than the site generated last year. If I were the owner, I might have to consider shutting the place down forever. Not that I'm advocating that.

That's why (if anyone is reading this at all) you're going to see a lot of crazy, sad, weird, scattered, nonsensical posts from me for a while. Because that's who I am at the other place, and well, that's who I am. In the immortal words of Marshall (Slim Shady) (Eminem) Mathers, "All I can do is be myself."

In other news, it's bitterly cold. It's the kind of cold that sticks to your skin long after you've gone indoors, that makes you want to wear an undershirt like your mom used to make you do, that tempts you to touch a metal pole with your tongue. Huh? It's late January weather, and I'm disappointed in it. If the weather were a student, and I were weather's teacher, I would give it an F minus. Or a minus 20 F.