Apr. 10: Bad fashion and grocery memories

When I was in seventh grade, I saved up my pennies for the coolest EVER pair of Lawman painter pants. They were brown corduroy, and went perfectly with several of my acrylic sweaters. I looked everywhere and couldn’t find a picture of the pants, but if you’re anywhere close to my age, I’m sure you can easily remember what they looked like. To finish the perfection of this sweater-pants combo, I had Cherokee Mary Janes—and it took just a quick search to find the exact style on eBay!

Yes, it be true: I was one stylin’ chickie.

OK, so do you remember those days when the only way you could get the brand name clothing you really, really needed to be popular was by buying it yourself? And the process of saving any $$ you could get your grubby little teenage hands on became the sole focus of your entire life? And then that day when Mom finally drove you to the mall—directly to Jean Machine, pro’lly—you could barely contain your excitement? And your head-to-toe attire for the next day was coordinated so perfectly, you were sure it would finally make all those cool kids want to be friends with you?

I remember that feeling more with those Lawman cords than any other article of clothing I ever bought as a kid. I don’t know why—maybe it was my first purchase like that, or it could’ve been my first one Mom didn’t go halfsies on with me; I don’t recall. But I knew for sure that those pants would change my life. The only thing I can compare it to in recent memory is getting my iPhone.

And what’s weird is that I have no memory of the first day I actually wore them to school. Two other kids in junior high had the exact pants, and I don’t know if I knew that before I bought them, but I was embarrassed anyway. Somehow it was okay to have the same jeans, but not the same anything else. Whatev.

Maybe the reason I don’t remember anything about wearing them to school is that what happened AFTER school that day was more memorable. I was helping my mom bring in groceries and accidentally brushed a new bottle of bleach against my leg, and immediately a bright white spot appeared. Who knew bleach bottles sometimes have bleach on the outside of them?

Nowadays something like that would make me say the unclean version of “effity eff eff,” like I did yesterday when I found out that using softener on my moisture-wicking clothes is what ruined their moisture-wicking properties, damn my non-tag-reading self all to hell. But back in seventh grade I probably just cried and cried. (It’s possible I was kind of a wiener.) At first I thought my brand new pants were ruined, but within a few days I discovered the magic of a little brown Magic Marker. Every day I wore those brown Lawman corduroy painter pants, I’d first scribble over that dime-sized bleach spot. It was as close to saving those beloved pants as I would ever get.

I’m quite sure that the bottle of bleach I bought at Target yesterday is the first one I’ve held in 30 years. I’ve never been a big bleach user—could it be something in my past??? Anyway, I noticed with horror that from the time I took it off the shelf, I was completely obsessed with not letting it touch any part of Victor’s or my clothing. When we loaded up the trunk with our purchases, I insisted he put the bleach in a plastic bag in an overturned stepstool we had just gotten at IKEA, so’s not to brush against anything else in the trunk BECAUSE GOD FORBID WE UNINTENTIONALLY BLEACH ANYTHING IN OUR POSSESSION. I was like a freakin’ psycho over it. What is wrong with me?

(Is it possible that I’m still kind of a wiener?)

Let’s call that a rhetorical question.