La mode and my 1/3 life crisis

It’s time for a new blog post, innit?

Being in a pretty pleasant mood, as I have been lately, does not leave one of my species
with much to write about.

Let’s see………bunnies? Cute, sure, but overplayed for sure as far as woodland creatures
go. So…………squirrels? They eat nuts and are overshadowed by their cheeky cousins,
the chipmunks (who also fought crime in the early 1990s). So that’s pretty much it for my
squirrel knowledge.

Music? I’ve been listening to Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, Pearl Jam, Blind Melon,
Vampire Weekend, Frightened Rabbit……..Oh wait. Nothing new there. Shit.

I could maybe throw out a bunch of big words on a topic on which I know nothing and
of which no one worth a damn gives a crap about in a vain attempt to win your approval
with my tamely above-average intellect? Tempting, but…….no.

Maybe we could sit around and psychoanalyze my egregious overuse of my period-heavy
ellipses. Desperate attempt to hang on to meaning where it should naturally terminate
with a real endmark? Okay. Check.

Oooooooo……fashion? Yeah, sure. Got it.

Well, it all started with my early childhood affinity for brightly hued dresses that puked
crinoline and had little jingly bells sewn into the ruffles. Paired with pastel patent leather
Mary Janes and lacy white socks, of course.

This begot all things neon in the early nineties. But it’s not my fault—I blame NKOTB.

The mid-nineties birthed my short-lived, Clueless-inspired Country Club plaids,
bodysuits, and jewel-toned jeans. Did I mention my glasses, braces, and post-perm sorta-
kinky long hair? Yeah. I’d like to get that image out of my head, too.

And then the teenage years. Also known as the Skater-Punk-Rawk-Grrrrrl-Random-Shit-
From-Thrift-Stores Period. Defined by 40” wide-leg jeans, chain wallets, Vans, and t-
shirts that used to belong to seven-year-old boys who attended lots of fundraisers, the
look was meant to convey both “anti-establishment” and “I like music with loud guitars
and lots of cussin’.”

Meanwhile, I was reading Vogue and British Vogue and flipping through (read:
drooling over) Italian Vogue when I could get my hands on it. I may have been a rawk
grrrrrl piercing my own eyebrow in the school bathroom, but I loved me some Nicolas
Ghesquiere. And anything Chloe. How pretty! *Sigh*

Anyhow, with Jesus and the overpowering desire to please the bestest closeted gay friend
a girl could have, I, almost overnight, shed my Airwalks, Manic Panic, and casual experimentation with illicit substances and turned to….wait for it….Banana Republic! J Crew! In the course of one year,
I went from spending my birthday money on guitar tablature and cheap alcohol to saving for
cashmere and designer sunglasses. AND, I might proudly add, I reached a size zero, but
not without swearing off all food all the time.

My more grandparent-friendly tastes continued throughout my early college years, with
my first paycheck from my first ever job going entirely to a pair of black knee-high
boots. The second check bought a beautiful red trench coat that I would wear still if it
weren’t for the irreparable hole. Daddy furnished a rich brown fedora, and I purchased a
cream-colored felt ACTUAL vintage one from an antique shop. I bought $50 tees from C
& C California and mid-range jeans with student loan money. (O, Ignorant Youth!) Shoes
were $80 and up, with my most expensive wedding-related purchase (yes, yes, married
young, and actually HAPPY so there! =P) being my first and only pair of Manolos.

Then came children and, concurrently, the era of “Why is everything so expensive here?
There’s no way I’d spend more than $15 for a shirt!” Sadly, due to aforementioned
children, this remains in effect.

But style-wise, though I often skew strongly vintage-inspired—who doesn’t love a good
swing coat, Peter Pan collar, and jewelry with birds on it—my tastes most recently have
taken a turn back to my rawk stage. Only this time, instead of baggy jeans and beanies,
it’s skinny jeans and big messy hair. Basically, if it can be found on a fourteen-year-old
boy who owns a straightening iron, I MUST HAVE IT!!!!

When I run across little Ashton in the Apple store, instead of wanting to douse him in
a bottle of nailpolish remover, as any respectable adult would, I wanna ask him where
he found his darling grey jeans, v-neck tee with epaulets, and Dauphin-De-Tout-L'Outerwear Cardigan. I want us to bond over hair color brands, as my black roots fade so
quickly to blah auburn. And, oh, look! We have the same chipped (duh!) gunmetal gray
on our fingers! Sometimes, I, too don my black Chucks. But today, since I was feeling
fat, I’m out in my leopard print platform stilettos. I just know in my heart that he and I
have both looked forlorn into the mirror and thought, “Ugh! Why is my hair looking so
kempt today?” Then we pick at a zit. I express my excitement at the Arcade Fire concert
clip I come across on the iPad I’m playing with. He mumbles that he liked them when he
was eight but feels like they’re trying too hard these days. Don’t get him started on KOL.
Right now, he’s not listening to anything but Jeff Buckley and some band I’ve never
heard of. I am twice his age and yet his inferior, tragically uncool twin.

Is this what getting old feels like? Damn, I was unprepared.



 Yours,

Meg, who would do just about anything to be reincarnated as Jeff Buckley (except for
the whole tragic death part)