Alternative title: That Time in High School When I Wore a Poncho and Everyone Was Like: "Why Are You Wearing A Poncho?"
It was a pink poncho. I should clarify that it was a regular, Fashion-y, "Fall wardrobe-y" type of poncho, and not one of these plastic rain-proof things that you'd wear at Niagara Falls. (I don't know if that really needed to be clarified, but I didn't want you to get the wrong idea. I wasn't walking around school wearing a giant plastic bag all day.)
I went back-to-school shopping with my parents every year. And every year they'd make me buy a new pair of tennis shoes (or "gym shoes" as they called it, which also doubled as "everywhere-shoes"), and like, four pairs of jeans. And some sweaters. And if I tried buying anything that was a little too "out there", my mom would usually speak up by asking, "Don't you think that's a little too... out there?"
She did not say anything about the poncho. She could have. She had her chance. I'd picked up the poncho, I had it in my hand - and even at the time, I was still looking for validation. While part of me wanted to look like the model on the poster - wearing said poncho with a matching pink headband and frolicking through the desert - the other part of me was like... dude. It's still a poncho.
My parents sent me a stun gun as part of a care package in college.
I figured I should open with that, so that when I say, “I found my stun gun in a shoe box in the back of my closet over the weekend” – ya’ll don’t think I’m the kind of girl who:
A) knows where to buy a stun gun, and -
B) keeps it in a shoe box in the back of her closet. Nestled next to a scarf and a pair of high heels.
Because that’s where it was. Who knows why. Who packed that box when I was moving?
Me. I packed it. I packed all of my boxes. And when I ran across that stun gun, I was probably like, “Well, I don’t have a box marked ‘Weapons’ …. sooo let’s just put it in this shoe box. That should be fine.”
That makes about as much sense me having a stun gun in the first place...
I wasn't allowed to dye my hair growing up. It wasn't a 'religion thing' or a 'Conservative thing' or an "afraid of chemicals" thing - my parents just told me that I wasn't allowed. End of story. My mom said I had "beautiful hair" and dying it would be like "ruining it".
These kids today walking around with "Mermaid hair" will never know the struggle.
I mean, I get it. My natural hair had "dimension" (I think that's the word that hair-people use). So many shades of brown - natural highlights, natural LOW-lights - just growing out of my head. And it was healthy! Ugh. SO HEALTHY.
But, you know, I was a teenage girl and thought that dying my hair was the equivalent of a Mia Thermopolis make-over. (Dye hair = look like Princess of Genovia.) But my mom wasn't having it. "Pick your battles", they say, and this is the one that she picked.
A lot of parents put their foot down about partying and premarital sex, but my mom has never been like a "regular" mom. She's a cool mom.
(Also, I didn't get invited to parties in high school and boys didn't talk to me. So if she really wanted to put her foot down about something, the hair thing was kind of all she had.)
I wouldn't call myself a nervous flyer, I'm more of a nervous airport go-er. Because airport security has a special way of making me feel like an international terrorist. Not on purpose, it's not as if they're eyeing me up and down with a couple of pitch forks. The majority of TSA agents that I've met were actually very nice. But they have a job to do, and they take it seriously. Which is a good thing, because if there's anything that would make me a nervous flyer, it would be some crazy guy on my plane.
But - let's be real here - if you think I know how to make a bomb out of a bottle of shampoo, you're giving me too much credit. I write my own fashion blog and keep selfies saved on my phone, I'm not the kind of gal who would dump my salon-brand-argon-oil-no-frizz shampoo down the drain just to start concocting a missile. I'm WAAAY too vain for that.
But TSA figured, you know, better safe than sorry. Who knows? The next world renowned international terrorist could be a twenty-six year old girl from the Midwest traveling with fancy shampoo and wearing a Calvin Klein dress.
Because that was my real mistake. Wearing that dress to the airport. Who wears a dress to the airport? Beyonce?
I used to think that if I wore "boyfriend" jeans, people might think that I actually had a boyfriend. Isn’t that why they call them boyfriend jeans? Because maybe your boyfriend left them at your house and - instead of putting on your OWN jeans that morning (you know, the ones designed for your female body type that actually fit) - you were like, “Oh, maybe I’ll just wear my BOYFRIEND jeans”.
Because that makes sense. Why wear your own clothes when you can wear your boyfriend's clothes that were wadded up in a ball on your bedroom floor?
At least that was how I'd always imagined it. Like Boyfriend spent the night, and we woke up together and maybe I left the house before he did - you know, for bagels or something - and I just slipped on his jeans because they looked soo comfy. And because I wanted the world to know that I had a boyfriend, and that maybe he was still at my place, and that maybe he wasn't wearing pants.
This doesn't make sense for a few reasons:
1) It's weird. Why am I stealing his jeans? Why wouldn't I just steal his sweatshirt like a normal girlfriend?
2) If I wanted to be "comfy", why wouldn't I throw on sweatpants? Even if they were "Boyfriend's" sweatpants? Sweatpants are exponentially more comfy than any form of jeans that have ever existed, even men's jeans that are baggy and have extra room in the crotch area.
3) Men's jeans are baggy and have extra room in the crotch area.
Seriously. Even if Boyfriend and I were the same size - and I'm going to level with you here, boyfriends and I have never been the same size - his jeans would not be comfortable. Jeans are not soft and blanket-y like over-sized sweatpants. They're made of denim. You're wearing baggy denim. How many times have you said to yourself, "Gee. I can't wait to go home and throw on my baggy denim sweatpants...".... oh, right. Never.
Because that's not a thing.