Why did you let me wear that? I can remember asking my mom that question several years after the purple eyeshadow fiasco of my seventh grade year.
She gave a nonchalant laugh. It was in style.
But not the way I applied it. I didn't wear any other makeup, besides Bonnie Bell Dr. Pepper Lipsmacker, so there was nothing to offset that thick stripe of chalky purple.
The eyeshadow,itself looked like a large, wind-up purple crayon, and I passed it around to share with my friends in front of my locker. I can vividly remember having made one too many applications of the purple mess, and feeling my eyelid actually stick and catch for a second on the skin under my eyebrow.
I had many sad fashion mishaps, where my kindly mother just looked the other way.
A couple of them ended up in class pictures ... like the one-piece floral romper, paired with unfortunate bangs, and finished off with scuffed up orthopedic-strength saddle shoes. But in my own defense, I hated those saddle shoes with a passion. I got my sting-ray going full speed
down sixteenth street and used the toes for brakes, hoping and praying that my mom would buy me new ones. But she'd just hum a jaunty little tune and apply a couple more coats of beige shoe polish. Those things could withstand a nuclear war.
Two years later, I moved up to the suede version of my saddle shoes, and my fashionforward mom made me the mini dress which had the potential for awesomeness, but ... the hair ... Marcia Brady gone very wrong. And then I had to go and accentuate the ensemble with the thick orange yarn ribbons and the brown stop sign glasses.
Ten years later, you would have thought I would have learned. Or at least
gleaned some of my mother's fashion sense. But I'm pretty sure some synthetic animal
died for this sweater. And
no matter what anyone tells you ...
a mullet is never the right answer for a new
How could someone who dresses like this:
have a mother who dressed all amazing and Mad Men like this?
Sadly, I'm starting to worry that I take more after the Joad side of the family.
Thanks, Great-Grandma. You could write like there was no tomorrow, but I'm concerned about the accessories.
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