L'il Kim Called: She Wants Her Dress Back

When I was twelve years old clothes seemed so important. Church was only an excuse to show off a new outfit or wear the new three-inch high-heels I had talked Mom into buying, despite my tender age. I had won the high-heel battle when I was ten, scoring a pair of deep eighties wedges from a Christian college girl who sometimes came to church. To her, they were so “out”. To me, they were so high, and therefore so very grown up. It was imperative that I look, act and be perceived as grown up; I wasted much of my young energy on looking, well, old.

I remember the clothes I used to wear – multiple costume changes at church conventions, sometimes three or four in a day! – and I am horrified. I dressed like an old lady most of the time, but not a conservative, Miss Marple old lady. No, I dressed like a very eccentric old lady with a flair for the absurd. But then, the women held up in front of me as shining examples were generally over sixty with very eccentric tastes and bright, flighty personalities, complete with the perma-smile and perpetually astonished, penciled eyebrows. Odd teachers beget odd students.

One ensemble that stands out in my mind is truly hideous. There was a fabric back in the eighties called “liquid gold” that combined all the metallic glitz of gold with the luscious drape of charmeuse to produce a truly frightening substance that did no one any favors. It was really a throwback to the disco era, and would, I suppose, make a decent draped, backless halter top with a chain neck, assuming the wearer had pert, bra-less breasts and bronzed skin. However, I had an entire outfit made of this material that covered me head-to-toe in Tacky. There was a big-shirt that reached halfway to the knee, a shell tank top beneath, and a long, full skirt that ended quite unflatteringly at just above the anklebone. It was all made of this gooey, shocking space-age polymer, and was quite blinding. Unfortunately, I went out of doors in this travesty, looking like a Midas reject, and now I know how Beyonce will feel ten years from now.

How do you live down a long, flowing dress of color-blocked kiwi and blueberry, worn with matching blue slingbacks and an overpriced Liz Claiborne pseudo-leather clutch? How can I justify the ginormous silver lame bow worn in poofy permed hair, or the navy and white polka-dot sailor suit disaster (worn with matching spectators, thank you)? Even worse, an Oleg Cassini matador-esque blouse of magenta taffeta with black velvet dots and accordion-pleated polyester palazzo pants. And I can’t forget the full, denim skirt worn with a white, ruffled petticoat and (this hurts me to type) a white, cowboy fringed leather jacket.

I look back at my fashion-backward youth and wonder how I became the woman I am today; I appreciate clean lines, understated elegance and modestly sexy garments. Now, instead of outrageous and daring, I opt for quality and simplicity, and only throw in the occasional eccentric accessory. Yes, I will sometimes wear a studded leather dog collar with a pink blouse just to tweak a nose or two, but except for a slight gothic undertone, my wardrobe has far less “flair” than it did. In a way, it makes me sad to lose that free and easy tackiness so embraced in the eighties, but as God is my witness, I will never wear liquid gold again.