As a young girl, I was into The Baby-Sitters Club books. And before you judge me, give me a break. What else is a 12-year-old girl meant to read? Bronte? Dante? I've read (or at the very least, perused) Wuthering Heights, Inferno, and Goodbye Stacey, Goodbye. Personally, I'm still not convinced that, of the works of the three authors, the narratives recounting the adventures of Kristy, Mary-Anne, and the rest of the gang aren't the most definite and superlative, certainly of the modern era, and perhaps of all time.
However, it has to be said that these books tended towards the repetitive. Formulaic even. So for me, the best bits by far were always the paragraphs devoted to what the girls' outfits - in particular Claudia, Stacey and Dawn (Dawn was always my favourite. Somewhat incongruous given that she was a blonde-haired, animal-loving vego and I am... not).
Anyway, I remember one night reading descriptions of bell-bottoms, leggings, men's shirts and braces so vivid, and so enticing, that I was moved to get out of bed and spend the next hour planning my outfit for the next day. I was inspired to team my multi-coloured swirly patterned leggings with an oversized unicorn tee, and my LA Gear high-top sneakers (which featured embellishments in heat-sensitive thread, if my memory serves me correctly). Just as an aside, there was a period a few years ago when the thought of this look was utter death, yet funnily enough, after only a few short (ish) years it is once more perfectly acceptable, desirable even.
In truth, this devoting of extensive time to outfit planning became a somewhat habitual tendency of which I've yet to be completely cured, and which I still get great enjoyment out of (even though said outfit is often discarded the next morning, in a fit of indecision and frustration). In fact, given a choice of putting together a fabulous outfit (albeit one which may never be worn outside of my bedroom), and watching the 7:30 Report, or something equally improving, I'll go for the outfit nine times out of ten. This is not something of which I am proud, but have come to accept with a certain degree of long-suffering resignation.
I'll certainly admit, this is a fairly boring thought, and probably one that is not worthy of first-ever blog status, but it's what's on my mind as I get ready for bed (tomorrow's outfit folded neatly on my ottoman, ready for the morning). Vapidness aside, if a conclusion must be drawn from this little trip down memory lane, it is this: I may be superficial, and clothes-obsessed, and there may be little in my head apart from Balenciaga and boots, but it's not my fault. It's Ann M. Martin's. And that does make me feel a little better.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment