One of my students writes a fashion blog -- sort of an anti-fashion blog, actually. One of her posts, in which she thought back to her personal style in high school, jarred loose a memory of a photo of me with some friends that was taken in a corridor of our high school. We look like what we were -- the "out" group.
No jocks or cheerleaders in our group, just a former seminarian, a student newspaper editor and assorted awkward young things in skirts that stopped below our knees, cardigans and blouses with Peter Pan collars.
Ours was, if you haven't already guessed, a parochial high school with a strict dress code. We girls were not allowed to wear pullover sweaters lest our flat chests excite the boys. Looking at that photograph, I doubt we could excite anyone with a pulse.
Within a year we would be off to college, set free to explore other ways to express ourselves. Still, I was a sophomore in college before I took the leap and bought my first pair of bell-bottoms. I shudder to think how geek-ily I dressed as a freshman. Old habits die hard.
These days I might be caught in a skirt once or twice a year. The rest of the time I dress to please myself, which is to say I dress to feel comfortable, to feel like me.
Getting older has its perks.
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