
This is the way matching dresses in my family worked. Three dresses, three different sizes, but only two different colors. The dresses of the oldest child and the youngest child were always exactly the same, and the middle child had the same style but in a different color. The lack of individual identity was probably difficult for all the sisters, but especially I think for me, the youngest child. In the great tradition of hand-me-downs (our pre-global warming brand of recycling), the youngest child eventually wore all three dresses. Unfortunately due to the age span of my mother’s daughters, it took about four to five years to work my way through all three of the dresses–a scarring fashion experience. It was like wearing a life uniform. I didn’t think I would ever out grow those damn sailor dresses.
The sweatshirts are not the most attractive color, khaki, or the most flattering style, but there is something wonderful about them. The material is soft, thick and incredibly warm, and despite it’s obvious fashion limitations this sweatshirt has quickly become my favorite.
Within the context of the school environment the sweatshirts are great. The problem occurs in the outside world. As we march through local neighborhoods on our Friday adventures, a gang of boisterous khaki-clad women, I imagine mothers fearfully calling their children inside, locking their doors, and then peeking through the blinds to make sure we are leaving the area.
This Friday our walk ended at Rudy’s. We celebrated with chips, salsa and drinks. I sensed we were attracting a few questioning looks. Maybe we didn’t have a cool gang image after all. Did the other customers think we were members of a bowling team, or perhaps scruffy members of a new cult? Or maybe we just looked like a group of friends, flushed from an afternoon walk, laughing our way into the weekend–friends who match in spirit and fashion.
No comments:
Post a Comment