This is the fourth in a series of fabulous reader guest posts. In an early "fashion" blog entry, I talked about celebrating my diverse and beautiful friends, and these guest posts are dedicated to that idea. My dear friend Ginny is a mother of small children, a high school teacher, and a professional writer. I don't know how she does it all so well, but I think it has something to do with her faith, brilliance, sense of humor, generous spirit, and the fact that she reads British novels and drinks tea. Please check out her website: Random Acts of Momness. She is an inspiration.
The Summer of Socks
Fashion trendsetting is not my thing. I’m basically your wear-black-pants-at-least-three-days-a-week kind of gal, occasionally rummaging in my closet for a scarf when I want to get really edgy.
But there was a summer in my life when I was on the cutting edge of fashion. I was ten, and I can safely say that no one else was wearing what I was wearing. At least, that’s what my older sister Amy used to tell me, but she didn’t say it like it was a good thing.
Context first: Amy and I attended Catholic school, where we wore blue plaid skirts, Peter Pan collared blouses, and cardigans. Our uniform also required knee socks, but not just any socks. These were royal blue, cable-knit knee socks.
And here’s what I did that was so avant-garde: I wore those royal blue, cable-knit knee socks even after school was over. I wore them around home and to friends’ houses and wherever Mom ferried us in the stationwagon. I typically wore them with – brace yourself – shorts.
And I wore them pulled all the way up to my knees.
The Summer of Socks
Fashion trendsetting is not my thing. I’m basically your wear-black-pants-at-least-three-days-a-week kind of gal, occasionally rummaging in my closet for a scarf when I want to get really edgy.
But there was a summer in my life when I was on the cutting edge of fashion. I was ten, and I can safely say that no one else was wearing what I was wearing. At least, that’s what my older sister Amy used to tell me, but she didn’t say it like it was a good thing.
Context first: Amy and I attended Catholic school, where we wore blue plaid skirts, Peter Pan collared blouses, and cardigans. Our uniform also required knee socks, but not just any socks. These were royal blue, cable-knit knee socks.
And here’s what I did that was so avant-garde: I wore those royal blue, cable-knit knee socks even after school was over. I wore them around home and to friends’ houses and wherever Mom ferried us in the stationwagon. I typically wore them with – brace yourself – shorts.
And I wore them pulled all the way up to my knees.
Why? I’d like to say I was being wildly creative and outside-the-box, but honestly, I can claim no such thing. I was just too uninterested in fashion to care what was between my skin and my shoes. They were socks; they were clean. That was enough for me.
We have photos of a family vacation in Bend, Oregon, during the Summer of the Socks. My sister manages to look cute in an eighties-fashion kind of way, and I am wearing short shorts with rounded edges and the blue socks pulled all the way to my knees. I’d share one of those photos here, except that it would probably go viral, and then my hopes of having any authority in the classroom would be irrevocably shot . Remember Elaine from Seinfeld? My blue socks are to me what Elaine’s dance moves are to her. (Actually, my dancing is too, but that’s another blog post.)
In a way, I love that totally unconcerned/oblivious younger me, who didn’t give a rat’s rear end what was on her feet. I’m still not a fashionista, but the question lurking in my mind every time I try on something new is, Does this look lame? If the answer is anywhere near “yes,” I ditch it. Such is the tyranny of growing up and caring what others think.
So now, when my son dresses himself and pairs a maroon turtleneck with a pair of black and orange athletic pants and purple soccer socks, I feel a mix of emotions. If it’s a birthday party day, I’ll gently steer him toward something a little less original. But underneath it all, I can’t help but feel a certain tinge of pride. That boy truly is his mother’s son.
We have photos of a family vacation in Bend, Oregon, during the Summer of the Socks. My sister manages to look cute in an eighties-fashion kind of way, and I am wearing short shorts with rounded edges and the blue socks pulled all the way to my knees. I’d share one of those photos here, except that it would probably go viral, and then my hopes of having any authority in the classroom would be irrevocably shot . Remember Elaine from Seinfeld? My blue socks are to me what Elaine’s dance moves are to her. (Actually, my dancing is too, but that’s another blog post.)
In a way, I love that totally unconcerned/oblivious younger me, who didn’t give a rat’s rear end what was on her feet. I’m still not a fashionista, but the question lurking in my mind every time I try on something new is, Does this look lame? If the answer is anywhere near “yes,” I ditch it. Such is the tyranny of growing up and caring what others think.
So now, when my son dresses himself and pairs a maroon turtleneck with a pair of black and orange athletic pants and purple soccer socks, I feel a mix of emotions. If it’s a birthday party day, I’ll gently steer him toward something a little less original. But underneath it all, I can’t help but feel a certain tinge of pride. That boy truly is his mother’s son.