Let’s see, where did I leave off last time? Oh yes…
It’s not that I have anything against polyester in general, it’s what having to wear those pant-suits came to represent in my life that caused me so much anguish.
Typically, I was relegated to wearing black, brown, and navy blue, because my mother would tell me that those colors were, “slimming and slenderizing and will make you look better.” What 10-year-old needs to hear those words? (Every now and then, only after much pleading, I could convince my mother to let me get another color. I still have a photo of me at my 13th birthday party wearing a turquoise set, complete with pants and coordinating button-down top with the short sleeves, large collar, and patch pockets on the front.)
Those flared-hem pants (at just the time that “tight-rolled” jeans were all the rage), with their permanent seams sewed in down the front of the legs were my only option. I felt that I couldn’t choose what I wanted to look like, or who I wanted to be or to become. My clothes screamed, “You don’t fit in! You don’t belong!” The fabric was thick and heavy, and was rough to the touch. They were meant to hide and conceal a body that was too big for its age, but there was nothing they could do to disguise the broken heart of the child who wore them.