The Indignant Fashionista

I see myself, every once in a while, when I go to the mall and have to walk past Sears to get to the good stuff. I’m the boy standing dolefully over a pile of those big purple jeans with the orange stitching. Sears (along with Kmart) was our family’s headquarters for clothes shopping, and while I was never in want of clothes (my parents saw good enough to that), I was in want of good clothes. Clothes that fit. Clothes that other kids were wearing too, and not just my socially-retarded friend Bob either.

*sigh*

Me: ‘Hi Bob. You guys are here too huh?’

Bob (who had just come around a clothes rack): ‘Yup! And then we’re going to Wizard Masters, they have the New Dungeons and Dragons set out today, and the new Zorlon comic, and –‘

Me: ‘- Err.. Cool Bob’

Bob’s Gran: ‘Oh Hi [Hammy]! They have a sale on those iSuck polo shirts –‘

Bob: ‘IZOD, Grandma’

Me: (muttering) ‘Oh, I think she’s got a bead on it’

Bob’s Gran: ‘- IZOD polo shirts that you boys like so much over near the registers.’

‘Oh, let’s go!’ my Mom says, handing me a pile of purple, ‘We wouldn’t want to miss out!’ ‘Pleaseletusmissout pleaseletusmissout’, I think to myself, and trudge along behind her. Now that I have jeans in my hand, I can’t pretend to simply be passing through anymore. Now it’s official; I shop here. I walk over to the iSuck display, and see that there are several choices of colors, all with that stupid alligator on them smiling up at me. I would pick him off if he wouldn’t leave a hole. This year, there’s a choice of lovely pink, pastel blue, off-green, and sickly yellow to choose from, and oh, black, but I can’t have black because it would make me look like a hoodlum. That’s what my Mom thinks anyway, but I know better, because I got to wear a black shirt once and I still got picked on. Hoodlums you generally just leave alone, because they might get you later. ‘We’ll get a yellow one and a blue one. Blue goes so well with your eyes sweetie!’, Mom says. One wink from the alligator, and one single-minded handsome-little-man move from my mother, and I knew that Bob was going to be my only friend this year too.

Mom: ‘Let’s go to the dressing room!’

Me: “Awww, Mom…’

The dressing room has been, and still is, my most hated part of shopping. It was also a rather painful and pointless exercise back then, since the goal was not to find clothes that actually fit me, but rather to find clothes that I wouldn’t outgrow during the school year. Last year’s ‘school clothes’ matured into this years ‘play clothes’, so if we got two years out of them, then so much the better! With this goal in mind, you could spare yourself a lot of embarrassment and time by simply holding the clothing up to the child until you found the size that looked a little bit beyond too big, since it was probably going to shrink a little anyway after you washed it. I especially hated the dressing rooms with the little wooden slats to see out, because even though you can’t see in, it sure feels like you can see in.

Me: ‘Mom, you don’t need to be in here with me.’

Me: ‘Mom, STOP OPENING THE DOOR!’

Me: ‘MOM!!’

Mom: ‘Well, come out here then!’

Mom: (turning me around and grabbing the back waist band on the purple jeans and pulling on it as much as humanly possible): ‘I don’t know, these might be too big…’

Bob’s Gran (looking with my Mom through the gaping waist band at my tighty-whiteys): ‘Get him a belt, that’s what I do with my Bobby!’

Bob: ‘Hey, you have the same underwear as me!’

Me: …

Girls (walking through Sears to get to the good stuff – you can tell because they are wearing faded jeans that fit - oh do they, and eye-liner too): *giggle* *giggle*

Bob: ‘Hey, are you coming with us to Wizard Masters?’

Me: ‘Sure Bob. What-the-hell.’

When we got back home I had to model the clothes all over again for Dad, as per the usual tradition. I’m not sure what purpose this served since he’ll be seeing me in the same clothes for the next year or more at least, and these ones are only slightly different than the clothes he saw me in last year (I got off-green instead of sickly yellow last year), but whatever. ‘I’m worried about the pants being too big.’ Mom says, looking me up and down. I have rolled the cuffs up twice, and have my old Lone Ranger belt (garage sale) cinching them up so far that if I had a picture, then I could have rightfully sued MC Hammer for diluting my trademark image a few years later. ‘Hmm.’ Said Dad, possibly sensing the early arrival of teen angst. ‘You know what we used to do when I was your age?’ he asked, and not waiting for one of a hundred snide answers I had on standby (Play Unions and Confederates?) he continued ‘We used to get them wet and wear them so that they would shrink to fit.’ ‘Come outside’ he said. So I go outside, and stand in the front yard, and Dad comes around the side of the house with a hose. **WHOOOSH** The jeans are soaked in no time, and I stand there cold and dripping, wondering what to do next, and from across the street, more girls, more faded pants, more giggling. ‘Friends of yours?’ asked Dad, waving to them. ‘Oh yeah, we talk all the time’ I say. ‘What am I supposed to do now?’ I ask. ‘Well, you should have taken your shoes off first.’ Dad offered, ‘Go ride your bike or something’. ‘I’ll go see Bob’ I say. So I go see Bob, and I slosh around in Bob’s yard instead of mine, since I am not allowed inside on account of my jeans issue, and wouldn’t you know that the last part of the jeans to come dry is the crotch region, so it looks as if I have urinary issues during the last twenty minutes of my visit with Bob, which both completes the social scene as I know it and makes the time just fly by. It doesn’t seem to escape the attention of Bob’s Gran either –

Gran: ‘Would you boys like some sandwiches – Oh I see we had an accident. I’ll get some tissues.’

Me: ‘No, it’s okay, my jeans are just wet!’

Gran (not listening): ‘My Bobby sometimes has accidents too.’

Bob: ‘That was LAST YEAR Grandma!’

Me: ‘I, no thanks, I -’

But I just end up taking the tissues and a pat on the back because, hey, why not. I’m standing in Bob’s yard with a soaked crotch, a stupid alligator, and chaffed thighs from riding my bike in wet jeans. What’s wrong with holding some unneeded tissues to boot. I pretend to dab at my crotch to placate Bob’s Gran, who has apparently forgotten about the sandwiches and starts humming to herself and wandering around the porch. ‘Ooooh, did you know Lady Plunon is Zorlon’s half sister??’ Bob asks excitedly, looking up from his comic.

Bob: ‘Oh, I just ruined it for you didn’t I?’

Me: ‘No, it’s okay.’

Bob: ‘Want to come over and play Dungeons and Dragons later?’

Me: ‘Sure.’

The ride home went easier than the ride to Bob’s did, as I weighed about 10 pounds less and didn’t have to worry about my ass sliding off the bike seat anymore. The jeans are now dry. The jeans are now purple. The jeans have not changed in the slightest.

Dad: ‘Hm. Funny, it didn’t work very well for us either.’

Me: …

Dad: ‘Well, that’s a quality pant for you. I guess you’ll be able to wear those forever!’

Me: *cry*

It wasn’t until a few years later when I finally got a job umpiring baseball games (the only job you can have at 14, really, around here anyway) that I was able to buy whatever clothes I wanted. After getting my first paycheck, I went to the mall and immediately walked past Sears - out to where the cool kids were shopping, and bought the tightest, most faded Guess jeans ($78 at the time, if I recall) I could find. I then topped them off with a black leather jacket. It was heavenly. The jeans lasted exactly two days before I managed to rip huge gaping hole in the crotch because they were too tight to move in.

So I put on spandex underneath, and wore them anyway!!!