If The Hat Fits, Don't Wear It Part II

I’m at the beach all week, so I’ll be absent blog-wise.

Just checked my email and my very best friend from jr. high and high school had her sister send me this picture since I somehow "lost" my 8th grade yearbook. Thanks Lisa G!

This yearbook photo documents that I did, indeed, wear a HAT ON PICTURE DAY! Yikes. Yes, I'm the 45 year old woman in that photo who apparently takes her job in the school newsroom VERY seriously.

I hope you’ll have a chance today to read about the Picture Day Debacle.

And if you do, please don't ask why I'm wearing an entirely different outfit in my individual school picture. Some things have been blocked from memory and should not be delved into outside of a therapist's office.

At the beach this week I’m sporting my skirted bathing suit, a long sleeved swim shirt and a jaunty mom-hat. I guess some things don’t change.

If the Hat Fits, Don't Wear It

I read a poignant post over at Apathy Lounge about a Jr. High dance, and I wondered if I could plumb the depths of my own Jr. High dance experiences, or whether it would be too miserable. I know I’ve written about my “awkward stage” before, but a Jr. High dance? Excruciating. I am trying to muster up the courage to do it, but today will not be the day.

Instead, I’ll fill you in a little more on my Jr. High self. Remember this horrible school picture, that I have bravely posted no fewer than 3 times on this blog (“Anna, you are a strong, confidant woman. Breathe. Anna, you are a a strong, confidant woman”)??? Well, my friend Cindy kindly pointed out there is more to this picture than I have shared with you.

On picture day in 8th grade, I came downstairs in my wardrobe staples: cords, my ruffly white blouse and my quilted purple jacket. These were some of the few clothes that fit because I had grown several inches and gained 30+ pounds in just a few months. The braces and perm? Just added bonuses.

There was another article of clothing that morning that I have failed to share with you: a hat. A teal blue wool Liz Claiborne hat. Not a “let’s go sledding hat with a pom pom,” but an “I’m pushing 40 and am on my way to brunch at the club,” kind of hat.

My dear mother had bought it at my urging on one of our shopping trips to her favorite store, Lord and Taylor. She bought herself a jaunty burgundy wool cowboy hat that same day. I should have realized hearing all the “oohs and aahs” when she wore her hat to church that a hat could cause a stir. A stir indeed.

But when I waltzed into the kitchen that morning, there was no stir. Perhaps my sister was already at school, for she surely would have commented . Perhaps my mother was just letting me show my independence as she had when I dressed myself in my neighbor's mother's blouse for my 4th grade picture.


I don’t know. Perhaps she was too enamored with her own cowboy hat to know that it was her duty to intervene and to save me from myself. She said nothing, so off I went.

As I stepped into the school, the murmuring began. It was one of a handful of times in my life when I’ve been so clearly inappropriately dressed, that I wished the ground would swallow me up whole. My stomach felt sick. I felt so exposed. What had seemed like such a great idea at home, suddenly became questionable.

So why didn’t I remove the hat immediately? Well, permed hat head springs to mind. But truthfully, I was torn. I liked my hat. I thought I looked kind of cute. I mean, what if hats were cool?

Hadn’t I been the first one in the school to wear a denim Calvin Klein miniskirt the year before with my bobby socks and Keds? Weren’t all the girls wearing them now? Could I perhaps be a fashion icon, who needed to take a few risks in order to leave my mark?

Looking back, I think I was going for a bit of a Molly Ringwald vibe. The problem? This was 1981 or 1982 and “The Breakfast Club” and “Pretty in Pink” didn’t sweep the nation until 1985 and 1986. I was screwed.


So, if you look at my Jr. High Yearbook, you will see me with the hat on in the group or “club” pictures, but not in my school picture. It was what I considered a reasonable compromise on one of the most stressful days of my life.

By taking it off for the portrait, I think I gave myself a sliver of a chance for a social future. I still was never invited to a boy/girl party, but there were probably numerous reasons for that.

And now I’m a mom, and I give my kids great latitude in their style of dress and the opportunity to make fashion mistakes. I know it’s a part of growing up. Just ask my husband about the time he wore pants to school with a pair of shorts pulled on OVER TOP of them. Ouch.

And when my kids have rough days, and feel humiliated, I remind them that no one else will remember their foibles as much as they will.

Yeah right.

I can’t remember what I had for lunch yesterday, but I still remember:

1. Jenny J. eating paste in Kindergarten.
2. Karey G. with little booger plugs in her nose on the first day of school 2nd grade.
3. The time my dear brother thought he got me a “Chicago” record for Christmas, but it really said, “Chico.” He was devastated, and I still feel bad thinking of it.

And to further illustrate this point, when my friend Cindy ran into a Jr. High acquaintance about 20 years later, whom I had not seen since 8th grade, she told him that she and I were dear friends, that she had been in my wedding, etc.

His response:


“Hey, isn't she the girl who wore a hat on picture day?”

Darn.



p.s. I’m digging into the archives for my Jr. High yearbook so I can show you a hat picture.

Fashion Faux Pas?

I know I have a reputation for being thrifty when it comes to clothes, but all the money I save shopping at the thrift store is really just to make up for the stuff I buy but barely ever wear. The clothes that I really, really wanted but now me cringe when I think about them. I am NOT talking about the heavily shoulder padded boxy blazers or the flannel shirts of the 80’s or our well-loved stonewashed jeans. We looked HOT in those and you know it.

I’m talking about those articles of clothing that are perfectly fine, but that we wear once and realize they just don’t work for us. Have you ever been caught in an outfit that is suddenly so emphatically, undeniably WRONG, that you wonder whether being naked would be better than keeping it on one second longer? This usually happens to me in a public place w/ no mode of escape.

This happened to me last week at a school fundraiser. I wore a satin retro-50’s June Cleaver cocktail dress. I had bare legs and high heels. It was 13 degrees outside and not much warmer in the building. I had forced myself out of my cozy sweatpants only moments before, knowing that this was a pretty formal affair.

My ankles still had sock indentations on them. I was freezing, but ready to suffer for fashion. All the other women wore fitted wool skirts, tall boots and sophisticated and WARM sweaters. I wanted to rip the cozy little scarves off their necks and fashion a poncho for myself out of them.

Great dress, wrong occasion.

Other times, I’ve tried to wear things that just weren’t me. A Target tube top, for instance. While I’d never be accused of wearing "mom jeans," and I WAS the first person in my high school to get a 1986 asymmetrical haircut (check it out!), any attempts to be on the cutting edge of fashion leave me feeling self conscious and uncomfortable.

When I think of cringe-worthy outfits, the very worst was when I tried too hard to look cool. I was in grad school and was headed back to my old college for homecoming. I had super long hair, had shed the college 15 and I was looking pretty darn good.

My outfit of choice? A velvety pseudo-gothic tunic, black tights, chunky shoes, and ripped jean SHORTS over top. Eeek. In my defense, I was an English major, I took women’s studies, and I felt slightly artsy. I wavered slightly about my choice when my brother-in-law asked, “You’re going to wear THAT?” but what did he know?

I dismissed him and forged ahead. It wasn’t until I walked down the crowded stairs into a frat party that I realized my outfit stunk. I couldn’t pull it off. A snooty girl from another sorority looked me up and down and her eyes settled on my velvet tunic. “I never thought these parties were FORMAL!” she laughed.

Most recently, I wore a nearly floor length sweater found at the thrift shop with the tags still on it. I should have taken that as a clue that it would take a mighty strong woman to pull off this sweater. Seeing as I am neither Stevie Nicks nor Elvira, I don’t think I’m that woman. Halfway down the hallway at church I’d had so many positive comments I wanted to crawl in a hole.

You see, it is my personal belief that when an inordinate number of people feel compelled to comment on any one article of clothing, it is a bad sign. I came to this understanding after witnessing far too many compliments of nightmare haircuts and fashion trainwrecks. I realized that people feel like they have to acknowledge some outfits, even if it’s with a bogus compliment. They may even think they are being sincere.

These are the same people who say, “Oh, have you lost weight?” every time you look good. They don’t seem to realize this implies they thought you looked like a lard butt before. You may have just gotten a nice new pair of earrings, but they just have to play the weight card.

So, for all of my money saving, I must admit I’ve wasted a chunk of change on clothes that simply don’t work for me. I’d LOVE to hear what similar bombs are in your closet. I’m not alone in this, am I?

And, for the first An Inch of Gray Giveaway, I have a lovely floor length black sweater to mail to that lucky someone. Must be at least 5’3” to enter!