When I was 4 I had my first pair of “heels.” They were half inch tall, bright pink, Barbie brand clogs. Though I could barely wobble along in them I wore them everywhere. I felt like a princess with my hot pink rubber shoes. I saw the other preschoolers looking to my feet when I clopped in the door. I noticed the snickers but I didn't care. I had my pink shoes, and they made me happy. |
Third grade was the first time I wore slacks to school. They were jet black pinstripe, boot cut, with triple buttons. I took pride in the fact that I matched the teachers. It felt cool to be wearing what was trendy for adults. My classmates, clad in jeans, just didn’t understand style I thought. “Ew, what are those,” a group of girls sneered, glaring at my pants as I walked past their table. “They’re called slacks, and they’re what professional people wear” I quipped, sashaying past. |
Seventh grade is when I got my ears pierced. I was ecstatic to finally be able to sport long dangly earrings. I pranced around the school with a smirk as my red feather earrings brushed against my shoulders. “I was surprised you did so well!” my history teacher exclaimed, handing back my 100% quiz. “Oh, really?” I responded, with a smile as usual, but still confused. “Yeah, you know with all your flashy jewelry I just… I just didn’t think you’d do so well! Great job though!” they replied. I half heartedly chuckled, wondering what exactly my accessories had to do with my intelligence.
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Unlike many awkward tweens I was excited to enter high school. Not only was I moving to the big leagues of academics but since I was now 14 I was aloud to wear two and a half inch heels. I proudly marched to my classes in my shiny blue heels. “Does she really wear heels everyday?” I heard a girl snicker at the table behind me. I kept my head down and continued to work on my assignment. “I mean she probably only does it to attract guys, but she’s not even impressing anyone so why bother.”
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Eleventh grade is when I debuted my new, edgier look. My black leggings with rips all the way up the front made me feel like a rocker. I wore shorts over them of course, to abide by the dress code, but the openings all the way down my leg felt uber cool. “Hey!” a kid yelled to me as I was sitting down at my lunch table. I raised a questioning eyebrow at him. “Those leggings are really slutty.” I flashed him a smile and said “Thank you!” before turning back around to my food, hearing him walk away muttering to his friends about “what a crazy bitch.”
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When I turned 18 I got my first job at a retail store. It wasn’t anything special, just a department store, but that didn’t stop me from wearing pencil skirts and silk dress shirts. Just because I wasn’t working at Vogue didn’t mean I couldn’t look like it. “She was actually wearing Versace the other day.” I heard a coworker mutter to her friend as I stood waiting at the vending machine, rocking back and forth in my Louis Vuittons. “Like, you’re a sales associate, how pretentious is that? Who does she think she is.”
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At 21 I went to my first nightclub. Clad in a low cut dress, complete with plenty of sequins. I danced the night away and even met a cute guy at the bar. We talked for a while and I was surprised he seemed so interested in me. “Hey, let’s go back to my place,” he whispered in my ear sometime around midnight. “Why don’t I give you my number and we can pick this back up sometime later this week in a better lit cafe,” I responded with that patented awkward giggle. “You don’t want to come home with me?” he asked, almost offended. “I’d rather take things slow,” I said. “Well you’re showing so much cleavage, I just assumed you’d say yes,” he scoffed. “Well you assumed wrong,” I huffed, promptly turning and leaving.
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I was 32 when I married the man of my dreams. My dress was the most decadent gown you could imagine. The full skirt billowed out like Cinderella. The bodice was adorned with thousands of rhinestones. I had plenty of diamond jewelry to match. When I spun it was a tornado of glitter and tulle. “You look stunning,” my now husband whispered to me at the reception. “You don’t think it’s too much?” I asked. “I was afraid it was a little over the top, that people might think I’m trying to hard.” He smiled sweetly as he said, “Who cares what others think or assume. As long as it makes you happy, then it’s perfect.”
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