It all began with a perfect pair of polyester pants. Before that I was just that friendly girl; kind, sweet, forgettable. Then I discovered mascara and decided to reinvent myself. I knew what I wanted. I wanted to be important. When people remembered high school I wanted to be forefront in their memories; kind, sweet, unforgettable. “Sure, I remember her - she was that hippie chick...”
I was in tenth grade. I wore thick, black mascara and my lashes were so long that they hit my eyebrows. I was at my best friend’s grandmas house digging through moldy boxes that smelled of old person when we found them. They were brown plaid. They were bell bottoms. They stunk of mothballs. I had to have them. My friend, with my best interest in my mind, I’m sure, tried to talk me out of it. “They’ll be so tight,” she warned. I was 102 pounds. I was pretty sure I could pull it off. Her grandma was happy to let them go. It took four washes to replace the nursing home smell with that fresh, traditional scent of Tide.
They were perfect. They fit like a glove - like they’d been made just for me. I’d never worn pants so fitted. My thighs looked amazing. The fabric itched against my legs. I preened before the mirror. It would be a good day.
My confidence started to wan as I walked to meet the bus. It was 1995 not 1971. I began to worry about what people would think. It was a pretty bold move, if you ask me, showing up at school in something so a-typical of myself that people were sure to notice. And comment. I started to sweat. (May I remind you that polyester is not the material to wear if you’re going to get sweaty.) The bus ride was too short. The school halls had at least doubled. I was sure everyone was staring and whispering. I wanted to fake a stomach ache and retreat to the nurses office but instead I held my head high and marched into first period. That’s where it turned around. My seat was in front of Scott Dolson - who, might I add, I had been secretly in love with since the fourth grade. He was already there, his eyes on me - on my thighs - as I weaved through the desks to mine. “Nice pants,” he said. I offered a half grin, not sure if it was a compliment or a dig. I turned to slide into my seat. He let out a puff of air. “Your butt looks great!” I pretended I didn’t hear him but I felt my face flush and I’m pretty sure I loved him a little more after that.
And that was the beginning of my affair with the thrift store industry. That was the day I dismissed every typical piece of clothing from my seriously lacking wardrobe. That was the day I gained self confidence. That was the day that defined the next half of my life (no matter how trivial and insignificant a pair of pants may seem). That was the day I began the journey to becoming that hippie chick everybody wanted to know (or so I like to think). I started writing poetry. I got a guitar. I wrote things like, “John Lennon Lives Forever,” across my binders. I wore fake Birkenstalks because I couldn’t afford the real ones. I like to say it was me who brought Goodwill awareness to the halls of John Diefenbaker Secondary School. It was I who made it cool to bring a little funk and individuality to the classroom. (Of course this isn’t true, I’m not delusional but let me have my moment - this was my day.)
That was fifteen years ago. Half a lifetime. I am thirty. Three. Zero. 30.
Excuse me, I just choked a little bit.
I didn’t wake up on the dawn of my thirtieth to find some old-person mole had sprouted. I wasn’t overwhelmed with some desperate despair that my life was now somehow over. I did spend an embarrassing length of time in front of the mirror, trying to find those thirty years, satisfying myself in the fact that every line I found was part of my smile. And I did try on those polyester pants. I almost cried. I didn’t - but almost.
I have had three children. When we started talking about having babies I told my husband that I wanted to be done by the time I was thirty. Mission accomplished. I am done. Three babies is a lot of abuse for a body. I’m not the fifteen-year-old who rescued those pants from a cardboard prison. Things have shifted. Some have relocated altogether. I am not 102 pounds. I can no longer pull it off. I took off the pants, sliding them over my (not so fabulous) thighs, feeling the familiar itch of the polyester, noticing the pilling in the crotch as I folded them, feeling a shudder of mourning as I slipped them into a bag bound for Goodwill. Part of me struggled to hang on to them. Maybe someday sew them into a quilt. Maybe kill myself with hour-long daily workouts so I can wear them again. But that’s not realistic - I have three kids, remember?
So this is my rite of passage. This is my journey into adulthood. I am now a grownup. It is time to reinvent myself again. With the death of my pants I have begun a new friendship with natural fibers and real live grownup clothes (mostly). My eyelashes don’t reach my eyebrows anymore - punishment for fifteen years of mascara use. I have to dedicate twenty minutes a day to a ten kilometer stationary bike ride if I don’t want my thighs to rub together when I walk. But here’s what I know: it’s okay. It’s okay to get older. It’s okay to accept where I am as my ideal self instead of wishing for the way I was in the past. It’s okay to feel nostalgic in the vintage section of Value Village as I let my fingers trace along the hemlines of all those fantastic synthetic togs. It’s okay to walk away from that garment rack and choose, instead, a great cotton blouse (which I can still jazz up with a cute hippie-inspired belt or something to make it my own). It’s okay to embrace adulthood because as Zander (my eight-year-old) says, “you’re old, Mommy, but at least you look young.”
And so, to that fifteen year old girl, browsing the racks, stumbling upon that perfect pair of polyester pants I say, “Go for it!” because when you’re wearing them no one’s going to be able to see the pilling in the crotch.
I was in tenth grade. I wore thick, black mascara and my lashes were so long that they hit my eyebrows. I was at my best friend’s grandmas house digging through moldy boxes that smelled of old person when we found them. They were brown plaid. They were bell bottoms. They stunk of mothballs. I had to have them. My friend, with my best interest in my mind, I’m sure, tried to talk me out of it. “They’ll be so tight,” she warned. I was 102 pounds. I was pretty sure I could pull it off. Her grandma was happy to let them go. It took four washes to replace the nursing home smell with that fresh, traditional scent of Tide.
They were perfect. They fit like a glove - like they’d been made just for me. I’d never worn pants so fitted. My thighs looked amazing. The fabric itched against my legs. I preened before the mirror. It would be a good day.My confidence started to wan as I walked to meet the bus. It was 1995 not 1971. I began to worry about what people would think. It was a pretty bold move, if you ask me, showing up at school in something so a-typical of myself that people were sure to notice. And comment. I started to sweat. (May I remind you that polyester is not the material to wear if you’re going to get sweaty.) The bus ride was too short. The school halls had at least doubled. I was sure everyone was staring and whispering. I wanted to fake a stomach ache and retreat to the nurses office but instead I held my head high and marched into first period. That’s where it turned around. My seat was in front of Scott Dolson - who, might I add, I had been secretly in love with since the fourth grade. He was already there, his eyes on me - on my thighs - as I weaved through the desks to mine. “Nice pants,” he said. I offered a half grin, not sure if it was a compliment or a dig. I turned to slide into my seat. He let out a puff of air. “Your butt looks great!” I pretended I didn’t hear him but I felt my face flush and I’m pretty sure I loved him a little more after that.
And that was the beginning of my affair with the thrift store industry. That was the day I dismissed every typical piece of clothing from my seriously lacking wardrobe. That was the day I gained self confidence. That was the day that defined the next half of my life (no matter how trivial and insignificant a pair of pants may seem). That was the day I began the journey to becoming that hippie chick everybody wanted to know (or so I like to think). I started writing poetry. I got a guitar. I wrote things like, “John Lennon Lives Forever,” across my binders. I wore fake Birkenstalks because I couldn’t afford the real ones. I like to say it was me who brought Goodwill awareness to the halls of John Diefenbaker Secondary School. It was I who made it cool to bring a little funk and individuality to the classroom. (Of course this isn’t true, I’m not delusional but let me have my moment - this was my day.)
That was fifteen years ago. Half a lifetime. I am thirty. Three. Zero. 30.
Excuse me, I just choked a little bit.
I didn’t wake up on the dawn of my thirtieth to find some old-person mole had sprouted. I wasn’t overwhelmed with some desperate despair that my life was now somehow over. I did spend an embarrassing length of time in front of the mirror, trying to find those thirty years, satisfying myself in the fact that every line I found was part of my smile. And I did try on those polyester pants. I almost cried. I didn’t - but almost.
I have had three children. When we started talking about having babies I told my husband that I wanted to be done by the time I was thirty. Mission accomplished. I am done. Three babies is a lot of abuse for a body. I’m not the fifteen-year-old who rescued those pants from a cardboard prison. Things have shifted. Some have relocated altogether. I am not 102 pounds. I can no longer pull it off. I took off the pants, sliding them over my (not so fabulous) thighs, feeling the familiar itch of the polyester, noticing the pilling in the crotch as I folded them, feeling a shudder of mourning as I slipped them into a bag bound for Goodwill. Part of me struggled to hang on to them. Maybe someday sew them into a quilt. Maybe kill myself with hour-long daily workouts so I can wear them again. But that’s not realistic - I have three kids, remember?
So this is my rite of passage. This is my journey into adulthood. I am now a grownup. It is time to reinvent myself again. With the death of my pants I have begun a new friendship with natural fibers and real live grownup clothes (mostly). My eyelashes don’t reach my eyebrows anymore - punishment for fifteen years of mascara use. I have to dedicate twenty minutes a day to a ten kilometer stationary bike ride if I don’t want my thighs to rub together when I walk. But here’s what I know: it’s okay. It’s okay to get older. It’s okay to accept where I am as my ideal self instead of wishing for the way I was in the past. It’s okay to feel nostalgic in the vintage section of Value Village as I let my fingers trace along the hemlines of all those fantastic synthetic togs. It’s okay to walk away from that garment rack and choose, instead, a great cotton blouse (which I can still jazz up with a cute hippie-inspired belt or something to make it my own). It’s okay to embrace adulthood because as Zander (my eight-year-old) says, “you’re old, Mommy, but at least you look young.”
And so, to that fifteen year old girl, browsing the racks, stumbling upon that perfect pair of polyester pants I say, “Go for it!” because when you’re wearing them no one’s going to be able to see the pilling in the crotch.
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