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.

Photo Friday

I dug into some shoe boxes to find school picture gems to share today. Things started out pretty well:



My mom made this dress. It was Syndy-Brady short, so I’m not sure how we kept our undies from showing. Here’s Molly in the same dress 30+ years later:
I think this next one is from 3rd grade:



This year I chose my own picture clothes. That’s my sister’s summer sundress, my NEIGHBOR’S MOTHER’S polyester work blouse, and my mom’s neck scarf. My mom actually bit her lips to keep from saying something as I left the house that morning. Still turned out pretty well, I think.

Things got a little dicey after that:

Couldn’t find a seventh grade pic, so this is from the yearbook.




Puberty hit that summer. I grew about 5 inches, gained more than 30 lbs, and here’s the 8th grade pic:




9th or 10th?




AWKWARD.

Things got much, much better after that. I went from a mullet to an asymmetrical haircut that was actually cool. Seriously. Here are 11th and 12th grades, although I think the 11th grade one is really from the People's Drug Store photo booth instead of being my class picture:






Why am I showing you these, besides to subject myself to potential ridicule and abuse? Well, I was thinking about all of these different ages and stages, and the angst that went along with them.

I hit my awkward stage HARD in 5th grade, and it lasted until the beginning of 10th. That was a LONG time. 6th and 7th were the toughest on me emotionally as I navigated difficult friendships and hormonal surges.

I’m not sure what changed in 10th, but things just started getting easier.

I’ve been thinking of Molly, who is so stinking adorable right now, and I want her to keep that sense of spunk and style and enthusiasm even as the years go by and her outward appearance changes. She is blessed to be hilarious and tenderhearted, humble and outgoing all at the same time.

You see, even though my 8th grade picture might make you cringe, as it still does me, 8th grade wasn’t all bad. I had great friends who made going to the movies, the mall, and having sleepovers loads of fun. We rode bikes, drank Slurpees and complained about our teachers. We stood awkwardly off to the side during the 4 o’clock p.m. dances in the gym.

Those same friends were still with me when I started feeling more comfortable in my own skin in high school, and those relationships blessed me with confidence and a sense of belonging (Thanks, Lisa G!).

I was already ME in all of those photos, and although on some days I felt defined by my looks (frizzy hair, braces, eventually glasses), it wasn’t every day. Some days I was more concerned about an English presentation or having crepes in French class. Some days I felt smart, sarcastic, kind and even witty. Every day I felt secure and loved by my parents, even though I didn't value that at the time because what I really wanted was to be loved by a “boy!”

I don’t know whether Molly will have a colossal awkward stage. I know some people are lucky enough to skip it all together.

Yep, there I am with my cousin, sweet Grandma, and my sister. Only 18 months older, L seemed to leap right over the awkward stage, and that made my blood boil. I felt the injustice of it all. I wanted to cut off her long blond hair while she slept. I exulted when I could move out of the room we shared, away from her and her languid "coolness."

She might be the first person to tell you that being invited to boy/girl parties in jr. high had its own challenges and risks. Or that being objectified for having a bodacious set of boobs was NOT pleasant, but as I sat home watching “Falcon Crest” each Friday night, I wasn’t buying it.

Her friends wore matching baseball shirts with iron-on slogans, and they walked the jr. high halls as if they owned them. I found out years later that she was insecure herself during this whole time... I guess pictures don't always tell the whole story.

Anyway, what’s the point of this photographic trip down memory lane?

Well, I really want to spare Molly the "awkward stage" because I remember feeling cruddy about the way I looked a lot of the time. But, I think awkward stages offer some sense of protection from growing up too fast, flying too high.

Also, I want her to understand that looks AREN’T the most important thing. No matter how I tried to cast myself to my parents as the frizzy, frumpy, lackluster preteen during this time, living out what I saw as a dreadful life sentence of blah (a little dramatic much??)—I hope and believe that they saw me as a hardworking, spunky girl with a soft heart and a flair for hyperbole.

They had, you see, known me and loved me my whole life, and they also had the wisdom and perspective to know that jr. high and even high school do not define one’s life.

So, on this last day of the school year, to Molly and Jake-- who now can be considered TWEENS-- I will say: It does get better. Much better. You don't need EVERYONE to like you, but just a few people to like you a lot. You need to see and believe who you are in God's eyes and in Mom and Dad's eyes.

Molly and Jake, I feel stronger, happier and more confident now at 39 than I ever have before. School years may be great (like this one), or terrible, but they do not last forever.

And school pictures? They always get better:

Or almost always: