Extreme Moments in Bad Fashion
In a far-off land, a long, long time ago, and quite possibly in another life, I wore some truly terrible clothes. When I say terrible, I do not mean “slightly questionable” or “a little too trendy.” I mean extremely skimpy, wildly inappropriate for public places, and arguably unfit for human eyes. At the time, of course, every outfit seemed like a brilliant idea.
If anyone ever makes a movie about my life, the tagline on the poster should absolutely be, “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” That phrase would cover both high school and college with alarming accuracy.
Most of the blame can be placed on three things: being nineteen, losing a lot of weight and suddenly being able to squeeze into tiny clothes, and spending far too much time at a bar where a fake velvet cheetah-print bell-bottom unitard counted as perfectly normal attire. This was not just any bar, either. It had a disco ball shaped like a saddle. It was also a country line dancing nightclub, because apparently that was a phase of my life. I was such a regular there that I was once asked to take part in a “Girls of Neon Moon” charity calendar.
I will pause here while you finish laughing.
For the record, the calendar never happened. So you can stop searching for it.
Also for the record, I met E at that bar. I married him mostly for his line dancing skills, which were clearly an important life qualification at the time.
As part of our current home renovation, we needed to make space in the storage side of the attic for all the clutter we had to move out of the living-space side of the attic. Since I am the kind of person who has a very hard time getting rid of things, this project led to the discovery of three giant tubs full of clothes I had kept for far too long. Some pieces were simply too small, so I passed them along to my friend Megan, who has lost an incredible amount of weight and now wears tiny sizes. Some were out of fashion in a normal, harmless way, so I donated them to Goodwill. And then there were the pieces that were so spectacularly awful that I kept them just long enough to photograph them for your entertainment.
So, for your mocking pleasure, I present one of the finest examples of bad fashion from my past: the black sparkly mirrored pants.
- I apologize for the bad lighting, but trust me, you do not need to see them any more clearly.
- I bought them at Gadzooks. Did you have one of those stores in your mall? It was like Hot Topic for club-goers: less hair dye, more pink.
I think I once mentioned that these pants were a size 5. It turns out they are actually a size 7. But they are a size 7 in the same way fat-free mayonnaise is actually mayonnaise, which is to say: not at all.
- Good news, though: they are stretchy.
Now you may be wondering, “What does one wear with such lovely, lovely pants?” I am so glad you asked, because there was a matching shirt. Calling it a shirt feels generous, but that is apparently what I believed it was.
- On the hanger, it may be a little hard to understand what is happening here.
- I swear this was sold in the clothing section of the store. Gadzooks again, in case that was not already obvious.
Still not convinced it is a shirt?
Sigh.
Fine.
- Please do not blame my mother. She raised me better than this.
This is one of those vintage outfit memories that makes me both laugh and cringe. At the time, I probably thought I looked amazing. Now, with the benefit of age, experience, and a slightly more reasonable understanding of clothing, I can see that this was a bold chapter in personal style. Not a good chapter, necessarily, but definitely a memorable one.
P.S. For the record, do not expect lots of amazing old photos in future bad fashion posts. Most of them seem to have disappeared somewhere between my college apartment and this house. That is probably for the best, although I am absolutely going to hold this against my kids someday: look what pregnancy ruined.
This has been another episode of Extreme Moments in Bad Fashion.