There was a time when a na?ve version of me didn’t care about superficialities like fashion. Then a dreadful chain of events happened, starting with an annual back-to-school shopping pilgrimage. A brown abomination was in the midst of it — a staggeringly brown abomination.
Being the middle child, standing out from my sisters was my mission, but my genetics didn’t get me the kind of attention I preferred. I was the stocky sister. They had the bodies of dancers. I could have been the illegitimate child of the Pillsbury Dough Boy, with my round face, bulging belly, husky arms and chunky legs. My fleshiness didn’t bother me until every August, when I had to go clothes shopping for school.
My sisters shopped at normal stores like Sears or J.C. Penneys. Mom had to buy my clothes at a “special” store called Andres. Its full name was probably “Andres for the Gravitationally Challenged.” Even though there was a section for “Young Women and Girls,” those clothes looked as if they were downsized versions of nursing home apparel — all hideous prints and frumpy styles. None of the garments had zippers or buttons except for decorations. The smell of elastic hung in the air.
Mom was a woman of the times and the times were the late 1960s and early 1970s. She appreciated the “out-loud” fashion styles and wanted her girls to look “mod.” My sisters achieved this look effortlessly; I presented more of a fashion headache.
The dreadful chain of events began when I reluctantly consented to a stretchy, brown polyester knit pantsuit — the most “mod” outfit Mom could find at Andres. The top was a long-sleeved turtleneck worn over the pants, which were bell bottoms with an elastic waistband. On Twiggy or Goldie Hawn, I’m sure the ensemble would have looked smashing. On me, however, the pantsuit took on the appearance of a rotting, bloated banana. The synthetic, probably flammable knit, clung to every bulge on my new, teen, Humpty-Dumpty figure.
“Mom, I think it’s too brown,” I said from the dressing room.
“You can jazz up the outfit with a nice fringed belt. Plus, the one-color look is slimming,” Mom replied.
Looking at my brown lumpiness in the mirror, I thought, I’m living proof that the one-color-slimming rule has its exceptions. But, being an optimist and a trusting soul, I whimpered, “OK. I’ll take this one.” The Brown Abomination had entered my life.
“Great! This outfit will last you a long time,” Mom said with cheer usually reserved for welcoming home a war hero. I knew what she was thinking: this one garment could expand as required and would not need replacing next year.
I debuted the outfit sometime around October when the air was appropriately chilled. “Mod” fringed belt notwithstanding, I felt like a junior-high, super-sized turd — all lumpy, obvious and absurdly brown. I walked into homeroom with my head held as high as possible (to make for a longer, leaner look, not because of pride). I tried to act normal by smiling and greeting my friends. But normal was not possible. All of my classmates, even the popular kids who usually ignored me, were gawking. Then they started laughing.
I blushed. Hot blood rushed to my face and scalp, turning me into a beacon of scarlet shame. Now bright red and disgustingly brown, I probably resembled a hemorrhoid. Scurrying to my desk, I tripped. Great! The human hemorrhoid just took a header. I wanted to disappear, but hemorrhoids and abominations don’t vanish easily.
As I fumbled to get up, I said to no one and everyone with more confidence than I felt, “What? Don’t you recognize modern fashion when you see it?” I adjusted my “mod” fringed belt and sat at my desk.
As the weight of this dreadful chain of events created noticeable perspiration splotches around my brown armpits, I decided that I had to avoid plus-sized stores and their ghastly inventory forevermore. “There has to be a way to get noticed in a good way,” I mumbled to my open notebook. But how? But how?
I wrote in my notebook: “Get rid of pantsuit. No more cookies or candy. Ride bike more.”
As August rolled around the next year, no one was more pleased than my mother (except for me) that we did not have to make a stop at Andres. I fit into regular-sized, teen clothes with buttons and zippers. Those clothes were fun and colorful–not a brown garment in sight.
As for the Brown Abomination, my mom adopted it. On her, it looked smashing.
